Something Borrowed
by Shumgronvato
Summary: AU: Trey, Demi and Naya are all now magically the same age. I literally just took them and placed them into the contents of Something Borrowed and omitted a few things. Now here we are. I own nothing as this is all in good fun. Summary of the story: Naya and Trey are engaged. Demi and Naya are bff's since childhood. Fun ensues.
1. Chapter 1

Tomorrow is my 27th birthday. The worst thing about this particular birthday is that for the first time in my life, I realize that I don't know where I'm going. My wants are simple: a job that I like and a guy I love. Unfortunately, on the eve of my 27th birthday I also realize that I am 0 for 2.

First, I am an attorney at a large New York firm. By definition this means that I am miserable. Being a lawyer just isn't what it's cracked up to be. I work excruciating hours for an asshole partner, doing mostly tedious activities and that sort of hatred for what you do for a living begins to chip away at you. So I have memorized the mantra of the law firm associate: _I hate my job and will quit soon._ Just as soon as I pay off my loans. Just as soon as I make next year's bonus. Just as soon as I think of something else that pays the rent. Or better yet, find someone who will pay it for me.

Which brings me to my second point: I am alone in a city of millions. I have plenty of friends, as proven by the solid turnout at my "surprise" birthday bash tonight. Friends to rollerblade with. Friends to summer with in the Hamptons. Friends to meet on a Thursday night after work for a drink or two or three. And I have Naya, my best friend from home, who is all of the above. But everybody knows that friends are not enough, although I often claim they are just to save face around my married and engaged girlfriends. I did not plan on being alone in my mid-twenties. I wanted a husband by now; I wanted to be a bride in my twenties. But I have learned that you can't just create your own timetable and will it to come true. So here I am on the brink of a new year, realizing that being alone makes my birthday daunting, and being 27 makes me feel more alone.

The situation seems all the more dismal because my oldest and best friend has a glamorous PR job and is freshly engaged. Naya is still the lucky one. I watch her now, telling a story to a group of us, including her fiancé. Trey and Naya are an exquisite couple, lean and gorgeous with matching dark hair and brown eyes. They are among New York's beautiful people. The well-groomed couple registering for fine china and crystal on the 6th floor of Bloomingdale's. You hate their smugness but can't resist staring at them when you're on the same floor searching for a not too expensive gift for the umpteenth wedding you've been invited to without a date.

"So the lesson here is: if you ask for a Brazilian bikini wax, make you sure you specify. Tell them to leave a landing strip or else you can wind up hairless, like a ten year old!" Naya finishes her bawdy tale on stage, and everybody laughs. Except Trey, who shakes his head, as if to say, what a piece of work my fiancé is.

"Okay. I'll be right back," Naya suddenly says. "Tequila shots for one and all!"

As she moves away from the group toward the bar, I think back to all of the birthdays we have celebrated together, all of the benchmarks we reached together, benchmarks that I always reached first. I got my driver's license first, could drink legally before she could. Being older, if only by a few weeks, used to be a good thing. But now our fortunes have reversed.

Naya is now leaning over the bar, flirting with the twenty something aspiring actor/bartender whom she has already told me she would "totally do" if she were single. As if Naya would ever be single. She said once in high school, 'I don't break up, I trade up." She kept her word on that, and she always did the dumping. Throughout our teenage years, college, and every day of our twenties, she has been attached to someone. Often she has more than one guy hanging around, hoping.

It occurs to me that I could hook up with the bartender. I am totally unencumbered. Haven't even been on a date in a nearly two months. But it doesn't seem like something one should do at age 27. One night stands are for college girls. Not that I would know. I have followed an orderly, goody two shoes path with no deviations. I got straight A's in high school, went to college, graduated magna cum laude, took the LSAT, went straight to law school and to a big law firm after that. No backpacking in Europe, no crazy stories, no unhealthy, lustful relationships. No secrets. No intrigue. And now it seems too late for any of that. Because that stuff would just further delay my goal of finding a husband, settling down, having children and a happy home with grass and a garage and a toaster that toasts four slices at once. So I feel unsettled about my future and somewhat regretful about my past.

Naya returns with the shots but Trey refuses his, so Naya insists that I do two. Before I know it, the night starts to take on that blurry quality, when you cross over from being buzzed to drunk, losing track of time and the precise order of things. Apparently Naya has reached that point even sooner because she is now dancing on the bar. Spinning and gyrating in a little red halter dress and three inch heels.

"Stealing the show at your party," Dianna, my closest friend from work, says to me under her breath. "She's shameless."

I laugh. "Yeah, Par for the course."

Naya lets out a yelp, claps her hands over her head, and beckons me with a come-hither expression that would appeal to any man who has ever fancied girl on girl action. "Demi! Demi! Come here!"

Of course she knows that I will not join her. I have never danced on a bar. I wouldn't know what to do up there besides fall. I shake my head and smile, a polite refusal. We all wait for her next move, which is to swivel her hips in perfect time to the music, bend over slowly, and then whip her body upright again, her long hair spilling every which way. I glance at Trey, who in these moments can never quite decide whether to be amused or annoyed. To say that the man has patience is an understatement. Trey and I have that in common.

"Happy Birthday, Demi!" Naya yells. "Let's all raise a glass to Demi!"

Which everyone does. Without taking their eyes off her.

A minute later, Trey whisks her down from the bar, slings her over his shoulder, and deposits her on the floor next to me in one fluid motion. Clearly he has done this before. "All right," he announces. "I'm taking our little party planner home."

Naya plucks her drink off the bar and stamps her foot. "You're not the boss of me, Trey! Is he Demi?" As she asserts her independence, she stumbles and sloshes her martini all over Trey's shoe.

Trey grimaces. "You're wasted, Nay. This isn't fun for anyone but you."

"Okay. Okay, I'll go….I'm feeling kind of sick anyway." She says, looking queasy.

"Are you going to be okay?"

"I'll be fine. Don't you worry," she says now playing the role of the brave little sick girl.

I thank her for my party, tell her that it was a total surprise, which is a lie, because I knew Naya would capitalize on my birthday to buy a new outfit, throw a big bash, and invite as many of her friends as my own. Still, it was nice of her to have the party, and I am glad that she did. She is the kind of friend who always makes things feel special. She hugs me hard and says she'd do anything for me, and what would she do without me, her maid of honor, and the sister she never had. She is gushing, as she always does when she drinks too much.

Trey cuts her off. "Happy Birthday, Demi. We'll talk to you tomorrow." He gives me a kiss on the cheek.

"Thanks, Trey," I say. "Goodnight."

I watch him usher her outside, holding her elbow after she nearly trips on the curb. Oh, to have a caretaker. To be able to drink with reckless abandon and know that there will be someone to get you home safely.

Sometime later Trey reappears in the bar. "Naya lost her purse. She thinks she left it here. It's small, silver," he says. "Have you seen it?"

"She lost her new Chanel bag?" I shake my head and laugh because it is just like Naya to lose things. Usually I keep track of them for her, but I went off duty on my birthday. Still, I help Trey search for the purse, finally spotting it under a bar stool.

As he turns to leave, Trey's friend Sean, one of his groomsmen, convinces him to stay. "Come on, man. Hang out for a minute."

So Trey calls Naya at home and she slurs her consent, tells him to have fun without her. Although she is probably thinking that such a thing is not possible.

Gradually my friends peel away, saying their final happy birthdays. Trey and I outlast everyone, even Sean. We sit at the bar making conversation with the actor/bartender. It is after 2 when we decide that it's time to go. The night feels more like spring than summer, and the warm air infuses me with sudden hope: _This will be the year I meet my guy._

Trey hails me a cab, but as it pulls over he says, "How about one more bar? One more drink?"

"Fine," I say. "Why not?"

We both get in and he tells the cabbie to just drive, that he has to think about where next. We end up in Alphabet City at a bar on Seventh and Avenue B, aptly named 7B.

It is not an upbeat scene. 7B is dingy and smoke filled. I like it anyway. It's not sleek and it's not striving to be cool because it's not sleek.

Trey points to a booth. "Have a set. I'll be right with you." Then he turns around. "What can I get you?"

I tell him whatever he's having, and sit and wait for him in the booth. I watch him say something to a girl at the bar wearing army green cargo pants and a tank top. She smiles and shakes her head.

A moment later Trey slides in across from me, pushing a beer my way. "Newcastle," he says. Then he smiles, crinkly lines appearing around his eyes. "You like?"

I nod and smile.

From the corner of my eye, I see the girl at the bar turn on her bar stool and survey Trey, absorbing his chiseled features, crisp fade, full lips. Naya complained once that Trey garners more stares and double takes than she does. Yet, unlike his female counterpart, Trey seems not to notice the attention. The girl at the bar now casts her eyes my way, likely wondering what Trey is doing with someone like me. I hope that she thinks we're a couple. Tonight nobody has to know that I am only a member of the wedding party.

Trey and I talk about our jobs and our Hamptons share that begins in another week and a lot of things. But Naya does not come up and neither does their wedding.

After we finish our beers we move over to the jukebox, fill it with dollar bills, searching for good songs. I push the code for "Stay with Me" twice because it is my favorite song. I tell him this.

"Yeah, Sam Smith is at the top of my list, too. Ever seen him in concert?"

"Yeah," I say. "Twice actually."

I almost tell him that I went with Naya to one but I don't bring this up. Because then he will remember to go home to her and I don't want to be alone in my dwindling moments of 26. Obviously I'd rather be with a boyfriend, but Trey is better than nothing.

It is last call at 7B. We get a couple more beers and return to our booth. Sometime later we are in a cab again, going north on first avenue. "Two stops," Trey tells our cabbie, because we live on opposite sides of Central Park. Trey is holding Naya's Chanel bag, which looks small and out of place in his large hands. I glance at the silver dial of his Rolex, a gift from Naya. It is just shy of four o' clock.

We sit silently for a stretch of ten or fifteen blocks, both of us looking out of our respective side windows, until the cab hits a pothole and I find myself lurched into the middle of the backseat, my leg grazing his. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, Trey is kissing me. Or maybe I kiss him. Somehow we are kissing. My mind goes blank as I listen to the soft sound of our lips meeting again and again. At some point, Trey taps on the Plexiglas partition and tells the driver, between kisses, that it will just be one stop after all.

We arrive on the corner of seventy third and third, near my apartment. Trey hands the driver a twenty and does not wait for change. We spill out of the taxi, kissing more on the sidewalk and then in front of Jose, my doorman. We kiss the whole way up in the elevator. I am pressed against the elevator wall, my hands on the back of his head.

I fumble with my key, turning it the wrong way in the lock as Trey keeps his arms around my waist, his lips on my neck and the side of my face. Finally the door is open, and we are kissing in the middle of my studio, standing upright, leaning on nothing but each other. We stumble over to my made bed, complete with tight hospital corners.

"Are you drunk?" His voice is a whisper in the dark.

"No," I say. Because you always say no when you're drunk. And even though I am, I have a lucid instant where I consider clearly what was missing in my life previously and what I hope to find going forward. It strikes me that, in a sense, I can have both on this momentous birthday night. Trey can be my secret, my last chance for a dark chapter, and he can also be a prelude of sorts, a promise of someone like him to come. Naya is in my mind, but she is being pushed to the back, overwhelmed by a force stronger than our friendship and my own conscience. Trey moves over me. My eyes are closed, then open, then closed again.

And then, somehow, I am having sex with my best friend's fiancé.


	2. Chapter 2

I wake up to my ringing phone, and for a second I am disoriented in my own apartment. Then I hear Naya's high pitched voice on my machine, urging me to pick up, pick up, _please pick up_. My crime snaps into focus. I sit up too quickly, and my apartment spins. Trey's back is to me, sculpted and soft. I jab hard at it with one finger.

He rolls over and looks at me. "Oh, Christ! What time is it?"

My alarm clock tells us it is seven-fifteen. I have been 27 for 2 hours. Correction, 1 hour. I was born in the central time zone.

Trey gets out of bed quickly, gathering his clothes, which are strewn along either side of my bed. The answering machine beeps twice, cutting Naya off. She calls back, rambling about how Trey never came home. Again, my machine silences her in midsentence. She calls back a third time, wailing, "Wake up and call me! I need you!"

I start to get out of bed, then realize that I am naked. I sit back down and cover myself with a pillow. "Oh my God. What do we do?" My voice is hoarse and shaking. "Should I answer? Tell her you crashed here?"

"Hell, no! Don't pick up. Let me think for a sec." He sits down, wearing only boxers, and rubs his jaw, now covered by a shadow of whiskers.

Sick, sobering dread washes over me. I start to cry. Which never helps anything. "Look, Demi, don't cry," Trey says. "Everything's going to be okay."

He puts on his jeans and then his shirt, efficiently zipping and tucking and buttoning as though it is an ordinary morning. Then he checks the messages on his cell phone. "Shit. Twelve missed calls," he says matter-of- factly. Only his eyes show distress.

When he is dressed, he sits back on the edge of the bed and rests his forehead in his hands. I can hear him breathing hard through his nose. Air in and out. In and out. Then he looks over at me, composed. "Okay. Here's what's going to happen. Demi, look at me."

I obey his instructions, still clutching my pillow.

"This will be fine. Just listen," he says, as though talking to a client in a conference room.

"I'm listening," I say.

"I'm going to tell her I stayed out until five or so and then got breakfast with Sean. We got it covered."

"What do I tell her?" I ask. Lying has never been my strong suit.

"Just tell her you left the party and went home . . . Say you can't remember for sure whether I was still there when you left, but you think I was still there with Sean. And be sure to say you 'think'—don't be too definite. And that's all you know, okay?" He points at my phone. "Call her back now . . . I'll call Sean as soon as I leave here. Got it?"

I nod, my eyes filling with tears again as he stands.

"And calm down," he says, not meanly, but firmly. Then he is at the door, one hand on the knob.

"What if she already talked to Sean?" I ask, as Trey is halfway out the door. Then, more to myself, "We are so screwed."

He turns around, looks at me through the doorway. For a second, I think he is angry, that he is going to yell at me to pull myself together. That this isn't life-or-death. But his tone is gentle. "D, we are not screwed. I got it covered. Just say what I told you to say . . . And Demi?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm really sorry."

"Yeah," I say. "Me too."

Are we talking to each other—or to Naya?

As soon as Trey leaves, I reach for the phone, still feeling dizzy. It takes a few minutes, but I finally work up the nerve to call Naya.

She is hysterical. "The bastard didn't come home last night! He better be laid up in a hospital bed! . . . Do you think he cheated on me?"

I start to say no, that he was probably just out with Sean, but think better of it. Wouldn't that look too obvious? Would I say that if I knew nothing? I can't think. My head and heart are pounding, and the room is still spinning intermittently. "I'm sure he wasn't cheating on you."

She blows her nose. "Why are you sure?"

"Because he wouldn't do that to you, Nay." I can't believe my words, how easily they come.

"Well, then, where the fuck is he? The bars close by four or five. It's seven fucking thirty!"

"I don't know . . . But I'm sure there's a logical explanation."

Which, in fact, there is.

She asks me what time I left and whether he was still there and who he was with—the exact questions that Trey prepped me on. I answer carefully, as instructed. I suggest that she call Sean.

"I already called him," she says. "And that dumbass didn't answer his goddamn phone."

Yes. We have a chance.

I hear the click of call-waiting and Naya is gone, then back, telling me that it is Trey and she'll call me when she can.

I stand and walk unsteadily to my bathroom. I look in the mirror. My skin is blotchy and red. My eyes are ringed with mascara and charcoal liner, and they burn from sleeping in my contact lenses. I remove them quickly just before dry-heaving over my toilet. I haven't thrown up from drinking since college, and that only happened once. Because I learn from my mistakes. Most college kids say, "I will never do this again," and then do it the following weekend. But I stuck to it. That is how I am. I will learn from this one too. Just let me get away with it.

I shower, wash the smoke from my hair and skin with my phone resting on the sink, waiting to hear from Naya that everything is okay. But hours pass and she does not call. Around noon, the birthday well-wishers start dialing in. My parents do their annual serenade and the "guess where I was 27 years ago today?" routine. I manage to put on a good front and play along, but it isn't easy.

By three o'clock, I have not heard from Naya, and I am still queasy. I chug a big glass of water, take two Advil, and contemplate ordering fried eggs and bacon, which Naya swears by when she's hungover. But I know that nothing will kill the pain of waiting, wondering what is going on, if Trey is busted, if we both are.

Did anybody see us together at 7B? In the cab? On the street? Anyone besides José, whose job it is to know nothing? What was happening on the Upper West Side in their apartment? Had he gone mad and confessed? Was she packing her bags? Were they making love all day in an attempt to repair his conscience? Were they still fighting, going around and around in circles of accusation and denial?

Fear must supersede all other emotions—stifling shame or regret—because crazily enough, I do not seem to feel guilty about betraying my best friend. Not even when I find our used condom on the floor. The only real guilt I can muster is guilt over not feeling guilty. But I will repent later, just as soon as I know that I am safe. Oh, please, God. I have never done anything like this before. Please let me have this one pass. I will sacrifice all future happiness. Any chance of meeting a husband.

I think of all those deals I tried to strike with Him when I was in school, growing up. Please don't let me get any lower than a B on this math test. Please, I will do anything—work in a soup kitchen every Saturday instead of just once a month. Those were the days. To think that a C once symbolized all things gone wrong in my tidy world. How could I have ever, even fleetingly, wished for a dark side? How could I have made such a huge, potentially life-altering, utterly unforgivable mistake?

Finally I can't take it any longer. I call Naya's cell phone, but it goes straight to voice mail. I call their home number, hoping she will pick up. Instead Trey answers. I cringe.

"Hi, Trey. This is Demi," I say, trying to sound normal.

You know, the maid of honor in your upcoming wedding—the woman you had sex with last night?

"Hi, Demi," he says casually. "So did you have fun last night?"

For a second, I think that he is talking about us and am horrified by his nonchalance. But then I hear Naya clamoring for the phone in the background and realize that he is only talking about the party.

"Oh yeah, it was a great time—a great party." I bite my lip.

Naya has already snatched the phone from him. Her tone is chipper, fully repaired. "Hey. I'm sorry I forgot to call you back. You know, it was high drama over here for a while."

"But you're okay now? Everything's all right with you—and Trey?" I have trouble saying his name. As if it will somehow give me away.

"Um, yeah, hold on one sec."

I hear her close a door; she always moves into their bedroom when she talks on the phone. I picture their four- poster bed, which I helped Naya select from Charles P. Rogers. Soon to be their marital bed.

"Oh yeah, I'm fine now. He was just with Sean. They stayed out late and then ended up going to the diner for breakfast. But of course, you know, I'm still working the pissed-off angle. I told him he's totally pathetic, that he's a thirty year-old engaged man and he stays out all night. Pathetic, don't you think?"

"Yeah, I guess so. But harmless enough." I swallow hard and think, yes, that would be harmless enough. "Well, I'm glad you guys made up."

"Yeah. I'm over it, I guess. But still . . . he should have called. That shit does not fly with me, you know?"

"I hear you," I say, and then bravely add, "I told you he wasn't cheating on you."

"I know . . . but I still pictured him with some stripper bimbo from Scores or something. My overactive imagination."

Is that what last night was? I know I'm not a bimbo, but was it some conscious choice of his to get laid before the wedding? Surely not. Surely he wouldn't choose Naya's maid of honor.

"So anyway, what did you think of the party? I'm such a bad friend—I get wasted and leave early. And, oh shit! Today's your actual birthday. Happy birthday! God, I'm the worst, D!"

Yeah, you're the bad friend.

"Oh, it was great. The party was so much fun. Thank you for planning it—it was a total surprise . . . really awesome . . ."

I hear their bedroom door open and Trey say something about being late.

"Yeah, I actually gotta run, Demi. We're going to the movies. You wanna come?"

"Um, no, thanks."

"Okay. But we're still on for dinner tonight, right? Rain at eight?"

I totally forgot that I had plans to meet Trey, Naya, and Dianna for a small birthday dinner. There is no way I can face Trey or Naya tonight—and certainly not together. I tell her that I'm not sure I'm up to it, that I am really hungover. Even though I stopped drinking at two, I add, before I remember that liars offer too much extraneous detail.

Naya doesn't notice. "Maybe you'll feel better later . . . I'll call you after the movie."

I hang up the phone, thinking that it was way too easy. But instead of feeling relieved, I am left with a vague dissatisfaction, wistfulness, wishing that I were going to the movies. Not with Trey, of course. Just someone. How quickly I turn my back on the deal with God. I want a husband again. Or at least a boyfriend.

I sit on the couch with my hands folded in my lap, contemplating what I did to Naya, waiting for the guilt to come. It doesn't. Was it because I had alcohol as an excuse? I was drunk, not in my right mind. I think of my first-year Criminal Law class. Intoxication, like insanity, infancy, duress, and entrapment, is a legal excuse, a defense where the defendant is not blameworthy for having engaged in conduct that would otherwise be a crime. Shit. That was only involuntary intoxication. Well, Naya made me do those shots. But peer pressure does not con stitute involuntary intoxication. Still, it is a mitigating circumstance that the jury might consider.

Sure, blame the victim. What is wrong with me?

Maybe I am just a bad person. Maybe the only reason I have been good up to this point has less to do with my true moral fiber and more to do with the fear of getting caught. I play by the rules because I am risk-averse. I didn't go along with the junior-high shoplifting gags at the White Hen Pantry partly because I knew it was wrong, but mostly because I was sure that I would be the one to get caught. I never cheated on an exam for the same reason. Even now I don't take office supplies from work because I figure that somehow the firm's surveillance cameras will catch me in the act. So if that is what motivates me to be good, do I really deserve credit? Am I really a good person? Or just a cowardly pessimist?

Okay. So maybe I am a bad person. There is no other plausible explanation for my lack of guilt. Do I have it in for Naya? Was I driven by jealousy last night? Do I resent her perfect life? How easily things come to her? Or maybe, subconsciously, in my drunken state, I was getting even for past wrongs. Naya hasn't always been a perfect friend. Far from it. I start to make my case to the jury, remembering Joe back in elementary school. I am on to something . . . Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, consider the story of Joe Jonas . . .

Naya and I were best friends growing up, bonded by geography, a force greater than all else when you are in elementary school. We moved to the same cul-de- sac in Naperville, Indiana, just in time to attend the town's bicentennial parade together. We marched side by side, beating matching red, white, and blue drums that Naya's father bought for us at Kmart. I remember Naya leaning in to me and saying, "Let's pretend we're sisters." The suggestion gave me goose bumps—a sister! And in no time at all, that is what she became to me. We slept over at each other's houses every Friday and Saturday during the school year and most nights of the week during the summer. We absorbed the nuances of each other's family life, the sort of details you only learn when you live next door to a friend. I knew, for example, that Naya's mother folded towels in neat thirds as she watched The Young and the Restless, that Naya's father subscribed to Playboy, that junk food was allowed for breakfast, and the words "shit" and "damn" were no big deal. I'm sure she observed much about my home too, although it is hard to say what makes your own life unique. We shared everything—clothes, toys, yards, even our love of Justin Timberlake and unicorns.

In the fifth grade we discovered boys. Which brings me to Joe, my first real crush. Naya, along with every other girl in our class, loved Doug Jackson. I understood Doug's appeal. But I loved Joe. I loved his unruly hair and the way his cheeks turned pink during recess and made him look like he belonged in a Renoir painting. I loved the way he rotated his number- two pencil between his full lips, making symmetrical little bite marks near the eraser whenever he was concentrating really hard. And I loved that he was always kind to the most unpopular boy in our class, Johnnie Redmond, who had a terrible stutter and an unfortunate bowl cut.

Naya was puzzled, if not irritated, by my dissent, as was our good friend Amy, who moved to our cul-de- sac two years after we did. Naya and Amy liked Joe, but not like that, and they would insist that Doug was so much cuter and cooler—the two attributes that will get you in trouble when you choose a boy or a man, a sense that I had even at age ten.

We all assumed that Naya would land the grand Doug prize. Not only because Naya was bolder than the other girls, strutting right up to Doug in the cafeteria or on the playground, but also because she was the prettiest girl in our class. With high cheekbones, huge, well- spaced eyes, and a dainty nose, she has a face that is revered at any age, although fifth-graders can't pinpoint exactly what makes it nice. I don't think I even understood what cheekbones and bone structure were at age ten, but I knew that Naya was pretty and I envied her looks. So did Amy, who openly told Naya so every chance she got, which seemed wholly unnecessary to me. Naya already knew she was pretty, and in my opinion she didn't need daily reinforcement.

So that year, on Halloween, Amy, Naya, and I assembled in Amy's room to prepare our makeshift gypsy costumes—Naya had insisted that it would be an excellent excuse to wear lots of makeup. As she examined a pair of rhinestone earrings freshly purchased from Claire's, she looked in the mirror and said, "You know, Demi, I think you're right."

"Right about what?" I said, feeling a surge of satisfaction, wondering what past debate she was referring to.

She fastened one earring in place and looked at me. I will never forget that tiny smirk on her face— just the faintest hint of a smug smile. "You're right about Joe. I think I'm going to like him too."

"What do you mean, 'going to like him'?"

"I'm tired of Doug Jackson. I like Joe now. I like his dimples."

"He only has one," I snapped.

"Well, then I like his dimple."

I looked at Amy for support, for words to the effect that you couldn't just decide to like someone new. But of course she said nothing, just kept applying her ruby lipstick, puckering before a handheld mirror.

"I can't believe you, Naya!"

"What's your problem?" she demanded. "Amy wasn't mad when I liked Doug. We've shared him with the whole grade for months. Right, Amy?"

"Longer than that. I started liking him in the summer. Remember? At the pool?" Amy chimed in, always missing the big picture.

I glared at her, and she lowered her eyes remorsefully.

That was different. That was Doug. He belonged in the public domain. But Joe was exclusively mine.

I said nothing else that night, but trick-or- treating was ruined. The next day in school, Naya passed Joe a note, asking him if he liked me, her, or neither—with little boxes next to each selection and instructions to check one. He must have checked Naya's name because they were a couple by recess. Which is to say that they announced that they were "going out" but never spent any real time together, unless you count a few phone calls at night, often scripted ahead of time with Amy giggling at her side. I refused to participate in or discuss her fledgling romance.

In my mind, it didn't matter that Naya and Joe never kissed, or that it was only the fifth grade, or that they "broke up" two weeks later when Naya lost interest and decided that she liked Doug Jackson again. Or that, as my mother told me for comfort, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. It only mattered that Naya stole Joe from me. Perhaps she did it because she really did change her mind about him; that's what I told myself so I would stop hating her. But more likely Naya took Joe just to show me that she could.

So, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, in a sense, Naya had this coming to her. What goes around comes around. Perhaps this is her comeuppance.

I picture the faces of the jury. They are not swayed.

I think back to high school, when Naya continued to get any boy she wanted. I can see her kissing Blaine Conner by our locker and recall the envy that would well up inside me when I, boyfriendless, was forced to witness their shameless PDA. Blaine transferred to our school from Columbus, Ohio, in the fall of our junior year, and became an instant hit everywhere but in the classroom. Although he wasn't bright, he was the star receiver on our football team, the starting point guard for our basketball team, and, of course, our starting pitcher in the spring. And with his Ken-doll good looks, the girls loved him. Doug Jackson, part two. But alas, he had a girlfriend named Cassandra back in Columbus to whom he claimed to be "110 percent committed" Or so he was before Naya got in the mix, after we watched Blaine pitch a no-hitter against Central and she decided that she had to have him. The next day she asked him to go see Les Misérables. You'd think a three-sport jock like Blaine wouldn't be into musicals, but he enthusiastically agreed to escort her. After the show, in Naya's living room, Blaine planted a large hickey on her neck. And the following morning, one Cassandra of Columbus, Ohio, was dumped on her ear.

But one thing I have to say about Naya and dating is this: she never blew us off for a guy. She always put her friends first—which is an amazing thing for a high school girl to do. Sometimes she blew her boyfriend off altogether, but more often she just included us. Four of us in a row at the theater. The flavor of the month, then Naya then Amy and me. And Naya always directed her whispered comments our way. She was brash and independent, unlike most high school girls who allow their feelings for a boy to swallow them up. At the time, I thought she just didn't love them enough. But maybe Naya just wanted to keep control, and by being the one who loved the least, that is what she had. Whether she did care less or just pretended to, she kept every one of them on the hook even after she cut them loose. Take Blaine, for example. He is living in Iowa with a wife, three kids, and a couple of chocolate Labs, and he still e-mails Naya on her birthday every year. Now that is some kind of power.

To this day Naya talks wistfully of how great high school was. I cringe whenever she says it. Sure, I have some fond memories of those days, and enjoyed moderate popularity—a nice fringe benefit of being Naya's best friend. I loved going to football games with Amy, painting our faces orange and blue, wrapping up in blankets in the bleachers, and waving to Naya as she cheered down on the field. I loved our Saturday night trips to Colonial Ice Cream, where we always ordered the same thing and then split them among us. And I loved my first boyfriend, Brandon, who asked me out during our senior year. Brandon was a rule-follower too, a Catholic version of me. He didn't drink or do drugs, and he felt guilty even discussing sex. Naya, who lost her virginity our sophomore year to an exchange student from Spain named Carlos, was always instructing me to corrupt Brandon. "Grab his penis like this, and I guarantee, it's a done deal." But I was perfectly happy with our long make out sessions in Brandon's family station wagon, and I never had to worry about safe sex or drunk driving. So if my memories weren't glamorous, at least I had a few good times.

But I also had plenty of bad times. Typical teenager stuff, really. Clichés, because it happens to everyone. Everyone but Naya, that is, who floated through those tumultuous four years unscathed by rejection, untouched by the adolescent ugly stick. Of course she loved high school. High school loved her.

Many girls with this view of their teenage years seem to really take it on the chin later in life. They show up at their ten year reunion twenty pounds heavier, divorced, and reminiscing about their long gone glory days. But the tide of glory days hasn't ebbed for Naya. No crashing and no burning. In fact, life just keeps getting sweeter for her. As my mother once said, uncharacteristically, Naya has the world by the balls. It was and still is the perfect description. Naya always gets what she wants. And that includes Trey, the dream fiancé.

I leave Naya a message on her cell, which will be turned off during the movie. I say that I am too tired to make it to dinner. Just getting out of going makes me less queasy. In fact, I am suddenly very hungry. I find my menus and call to order a hamburger with cheddar and fries. Guess I won't be losing five pounds before Memorial Day.

And here I am, without the dashing husband, the responsible baby sitter, the two kids. Instead my birthday is forever tainted by scandal . . . Oh, well. No point beating myself up over it. I hit redial on my phone and add a large chocolate milk shake to my order. I see my girl in the corner of the jury box wink at me. She thinks the milk shake is an excellent idea. After all, doesn't everyone deserve a few weak moments on her birthday?


	3. Chapter 3

When I wake up the next morning, the cavalier girl sucking down a milk shake is gone, caved to guilt and 27 years of rule-following. I can no longer rationalize what I did. I committed an unspeakable act against a friend, violated a central tenet of sisterhood. There is no justification.

So on to Plan B: I will pretend that nothing happened. My transgression was so great that I have no choice but simply to will the whole thing to go away. And by proceeding with business as usual, embracing my Monday morning routine, this is what I seek to accomplish.

I shower, dry my hair, put on my most comfortable black suit and low heels, take the subway to Grand Central, get my coffee at Starbucks, pick up The New York Times at my newsstand, and ride two escalators and one elevator up to my office in the MetLife Building. Each part of my routine represents one step further from Trey and the incident.

I arrive at my office at eight-twenty, way early by law firm standards. The halls are quiet. Not even the secretaries are in yet. I am turning to the Metro section of the paper, sipping my coffee, when I notice the blinking red message light on my phone. Usually a warning that more work awaits me. Some jackass partner must have called me on the one weekend in recent memory when I failed to check my messages. My money is on Dan, the dominant man in my life and the biggest jackass partner amid six floors of them. I enter my password, wait . . .

"You have one new message from an outside caller. Received today at seven-forty-two a.m. . . ." the recording tells me. What is it this time? I think, as I hit play.

"Hi, Demi . . . It's me . . . Trey . . . I wanted to call you yesterday to talk about Saturday night but I just couldn't. I think we should talk about it, don't you? Call me when you can. I should be around all day."

My heart sinks. Why can't he adopt some good old fashioned avoidance techniques and ignore it, never speak of it again? That was my game plan. No wonder I hate my job; I am a litigator who hates confrontation. I pick up a pen and tap it against the edge of my desk.

What does he want to talk about? What is there to say? I replay, expecting the answers to come to me in the sound of his voice, his cadence. But he gives nothing away.

I listen to Trey one final time before I delete him. His voice definitely sounds different. This makes sense because in some ways, he is different. We both are. Because even if I try to block out what happened, even if Trey drops the incident after a brief, awkward telephone call, we will forever be on one another's list. That list every person has, whether recorded in a secret spiral notebook or memorized in the back of the mind. Whether short or long. Whether ranked in order of performance or importance or chronology. Whether complete with first, middle, and last names or mere physical descriptions, like Naya's List: "Delta Sig with killer delts . . ."

Trey is on my list for good. Without wanting to, I suddenly think of us in bed together. For those brief moments, he was just Trey. Separate from Naya. Something he hadn't been in a very long time. Something he hadn't been since the day I introduced the two.

I met Trey during our first year of law school at NYU. Unlike most law students, who come straight from college when they can think of nothing better to do with their stellar undergrad transcripts, Trey was older, with real life experience. He had worked as an analyst at Goldman Sachs, which blew away my nine-to- five summer internships and office jobs filing and answering phones. He was confident, relaxed, and so gorgeous that it was hard not to stare at him. I was positive that he would become the Doug Jackson and Blaine Conner of law school. Sure enough, we were barely into our first week of class when the buzz over Tremaine began, women speculating about his status, noting either that his left ring finger was unadorned or, alternatively, worrying that he was too well dressed and handsome to be straight.

But I dismissed Trey straightaway, convincing myself that his outward perfection was boring. Which was a fortunate stance, because I also knew that he was out of my league. Besides, I wasn't borrowing thirty thousand dollars a year so that I could find a boyfriend.

As a matter of fact, I probably would have gone three years without talking to him, but we randomly ended up next to each other in Torts, a seating chart class taught by terrible Professor Zigman. Although many professors at NYU used the Socratic Method, only Zigman used it as a tool to humiliate and torture students. Trey and I bonded in our hatred of our mean spirited professor. I feared Zigman to an irrational extreme, whereas Tremaine's reaction had more to do with disgust. "What an asshole," he would growl after class, often after Zigman had reduced a fellow classmate to tears. "I just want to wipe that smirk off his face."

Gradually, our grumbling turned into longer talks over coffee in the student lounge or during walks around Washington Square Park. We began to study together in the hour before class, preparing for the inevitable. The day Zigman would call on us. I dreaded my turn, knowing that it would be a bloody massacre, but secretly couldn't wait for Tremaine to be called on. Zigman preyed on the weak and flustered, and Trey was neither. I was sure that he wouldn't go down without a fight.

I remember it well. Zigman stood behind his podium, examining his seating chart, a schematic with our faces cut from the first-year look book, practically salivating as he picked his prey. He peered over his small, round glasses in our general direction, and said, "Mr. Neverson."

"Palsgraf versus Long Island Rail road Company."

Trey sat calmly with his book closed while the rest of the class nervously flipped to the case we had been assigned to read the night before.

"Should the plaintiff have been allowed recovery?" Zigman asked Trey.

Trey said nothing. For a brief second I panicked that he had frozen. Say no, I thought. Go with the majority. But when I looked at his expression, and the way his arms were folded across his chest, I could tell that he was only taking his time, in marked contrast to the way most students blurted out quick, nervous, untenable answers as if reaction time could compensate for understanding.

"In my opinion?" Trey asked.

"I am addressing you, Mr. Neverson. So, yes, I am asking for your opinion."

"I would have to say yes, the plaintiff should have been allowed recovery. I agree with Justice Andrew's dissent."

"Ohhhh, really?" Zigman's voice was high and nasal.

"Yes. Really."

I was surprised by his answer, as he had told me just before class that he didn't realize crack cocaine had been around in 1928, but Justice Andrews surely must have been smoking it when he wrote his dissent. I was even more surprised by Trey's brazen "really" tagged onto the end of his answer, as though to taunt Zigman.

Zigman's scrawny chest swelled visibly. "So you think that the guard should have foreseen that the innocuous package measuring fifteen inches in length, covered with a newspaper, contained explosives and would cause injury to the plaintiff?"

"It was a possibility."

"Should he have foreseen that the package could cause injury to anybody in the world?" Zigman asked, with mounting sarcasm.

"I didn't say 'anybody in the world.' I said 'the plaintiff.' Mrs. Palsgraf, in my opinion, was in the danger zone."

Zigman approached our row with ramrod posture and tossed his Wall Street Journal onto Trey's closed textbook.

"Care to return my newspaper?"

"I'd prefer not to," Trey said.

The shock in the room was palpable. The rest of us would have simply played along and returned the paper, mere props in Zigman's questioning.

"You'd prefer not to?" Zigman cocked his head.

"That's correct. There could be dynamite wrapped inside it."

Half of the class gasped, the other half snickered. Clearly, Zigman had some tactic up his sleeve, some way of turning the facts around on Trey. But Trey wasn't falling for it. Zigman was visibly frustrated.

"Well, let's suppose you did choose to return it to me and it did contain a stick of dynamite and it did cause injury to your person. Then what, Mr. Neverson?"

"Then I would sue you, and likely I would win."

"And would that recovery be consistent with Judge Cardozo's rationale in the majority holding?"

"No. It would not."

"Oh, really? And why not?"

"Because I'd sue you for an intentional tort, and Cardozo was talking about negligence, was he not?" Trey raised his voice to match Zigman's.

I think I stopped breathing as Zigman pressed his palms together and brought them neatly against his chest as though he were praying. "I ask the questions in this classroom. If that's all right with you, Mr. Neverson?"

Trey shrugged.

It went on like that for the rest of the hour, Trey distinguishing nuances in changed fact patterns, never wavering, always answering decisively.

And at the end of the hour, Zigman actually said, "Very good, Mr. Neverson."

It was a first.

I left class feeling jubilant. Trey had prevailed for all of us. The story spread throughout class, earning him more points with the girls, who had long since determined that he was totally available.

I told Naya the story as well. She had moved to New York at about the same time I did, only under vastly different circumstances. I was there to become a lawyer; she came without a job, or a plan, or much money. I let her sleep on a futon in my dorm room until she found some roommates. She borrowed money from her parents to make the rent while she looked for a job, finally settling on a bartending position at the Monkey Bar. For the first time in our friendship, I was happy with my life in comparison to hers. I was just as poor, but at least I had a plan. Naya's prospects didn't seem great with only a 2.9 GPA from Indiana University.

"You're so lucky," Naya would whine as I tried to study.

No, luck is what you have, I'd think. Nothing about my life is lucky. But of course, I never said that. Just told her that things would soon turn around for her.

And sure enough, they did. About two weeks later a man waltzed into the Monkey Bar, ordered a whiskey sour, and began to chat Naya up. By the time he finished his drink, he had promised her a job at one of Manhattan's top PR firms. He told her to come in for an interview, but that he would make sure that she got the job. Naya took his business card, had me revise her résumé, went in for the interview, and got an offer on the spot. Her starting salary was seventy thousand dollars. Plus an expense account. Practically what I would make if I did well enough in school to get a job with a New York fi rm.

So while I sweated it out and racked up debt, Naya began her glamorous PR career. She planned parties, promoted the season's latest fashion trends, got plenty of free everything, and dated a string of beautiful men. Within seven months, she left her roommates in the dust and moved in with her coworker Kate, a snobbish, well connected girl from Greenwich.

Naya tried to include me in her fast track life, although I seldom had time to go to her events or her parties or her blind date setups with guys she swore were hot but that I knew were simply her castoffs.

Which brings me back to Trey. I raved about him to Naya and Kate, told them how unbelievable he was. Smart, handsome, funny. In retrospect I'm not sure why I did it. In part because it was true. But perhaps I was a little jealous of their glamorous life and wanted to juice mine up a bit. Trey was the best thing in my arsenal.

"So why don't you like him?" Naya would ask.

"He's not my type," I'd say. "We're just friends."

Which was the truth. Sure, there were moments when I felt a flicker of interest or a quickening of my pulse as I sat near Trey. But I remained adamant not to fall for him, always reminding myself that guys like Trey only date girls like Naya.

It wasn't until the following semester that the two met. A group of us from school, including Trey, planned an impromptu Thursday evening out. Naya had been asking to meet Trey for weeks, so I phoned her and told her to be at the Red Lion at eight. She showed up, but Trey did not. I could tell Naya viewed the whole outing as wasted effort, complaining that the Red Lion wasn't her scene, that she was over these grungy bars, that the band sucked, and could we please leave and go somewhere nicer where people valued good grooming.

At that moment Trey walked into the bar wearing a black leather coat. He walked straight over to me and gave me a kiss on the cheek, which I still wasn't used to. I introduced him to Naya, and she turned on the charm, giggling and playing with her hair and nodding emphatically whenever he said anything. Trey was pleasant to her but didn't seem overly interested and, at one point, as she was dropping Goldman names, do you know this guy or that guy? Trey actually appeared to be suppressing a yawn. He left before the rest of us, waving goodbye to the group and telling Naya that it was nice to meet her.

On the walk back to my room, I asked her what she thought of him.

"He's cute," Naya said, giving the minimum endorsement. Her lackluster response irritated me. She couldn't praise him because he hadn't been dazzled enough by her. Naya expected to be the one pursued. And that's what I had come to expect too.

The next day, as Trey and I had coffee, I waited for him to mention Naya. I was sure he would, but he didn't. A small, okay, a big part of me enjoyed telling Naya that her name hadn't come up. For once, somebody wasn't falling all over themselves to be with her.

I should've known better.

About a week later, out of the blue, Trey asked me what the story was with my friend.

"Which friend?" I asked, playing dumb.

"You know, the dark haired girl from the Red Lion?"

"Oh. Naya," I said. And then cut right to the chase. "You want her phone number?"

"If she's single."

I delivered the news to her that evening. She smiled coyly. "He is pretty cute. I'll go out with him."

It took Trey another two weeks to call her. If he waited on purpose, the strategy worked wonders. She was in a frenzy by the time he took her to Union Square Cafe. The date obviously went well, because they went to brunch the next morning in the Village. Soon after that, Naya and Trey were both off the market.

In the beginning, their romance was turbulent. I always knew Naya loved to fight with her boyfriends but I viewed Trey as this rational, cool creature, above the fray. Maybe he had been that way with other girls, but Naya sucked him into her world of chaos and high emotion. She'd find a phone number in one of his law-school notebooks, do the research, trace it back to an ex-girlfriend, and refuse to speak to him. One day he came into Torts looking sheepish, with a cut on his forehead, right above his left eye. Naya had hurled a wire hanger at him in a jealous rage.

And it worked the other way, too. We'd all go out and Naya would cozy up to the bar with another guy. I'd watch Trey steal casual glances their way until he could stand it no longer. He'd go to collect her, looking angry but composed, and I'd overhear her justifying her flirtations with some tenuous connection to the guy: "I mean, we were just talking about our brothers and how they were in the same freaking fraternity. Jesus, Trey! You don't have to overreact!"

But eventually their relationship stabilized, the fights grew less intense and more infrequent, and she moved into his apartment. Then, this past winter, Trey proposed. They picked a weekend in September, and she picked me as her maid of honor.

I knew him first, I think to myself now. It is no more iron clad than the Joe defense, but I cling to it for a moment.

I work late that night, delaying my call back to Trey. I even consider waiting until tomorrow morning, midweek, not calling at all. But the longer I wait, the more awkward it will be when I inevitably see him. So I force myself to sit down and dial his number. I hope for voice mail. It is ten thirty. With any luck, he will be gone, home with Naya.

"Tremaine Neverson," he answers, his tone all business. He is back at Goldman Sachs, having wisely chosen the banker route over the lawyer route. The work is more interesting, and the money much better.

"Demi!" He sounds genuinely happy to hear from me, although somewhat nervous, his voice a bit too loud. "Thanks for calling. I was starting to think I wasn't going to hear from you."

"I've been meaning to call. It's just that . . . I've been really busy . . . Crazy day," I stammer. My mouth is bone- dry.

"Yeah, it's been nuts here too. Typical Monday," he says, sounding a bit more relaxed.

"Yeah . . ."

An awkward pause follows. Well, it feels awkward to me. Does he expect me to bring up the incident?

"So. How do you feel?" His voice becomes lower.

"How do I feel?" My face is burning, I'm sweating, and I can't rule out the possibility of puking.

"I mean, what do you think about Saturday?" His voice is lower still, almost a whisper. Maybe he is just being discreet, making sure nobody in the office hears him, but the volume translates as intimate.

"I don't know what you're asking me . . ."

"Do you feel guilty?"

"Of course I feel guilty. Don't you?" I look out my window at the lights of Manhattan, in the direction of his downtown office.

"Well, yeah," he says sincerely. "Obviously. It shouldn't have happened. No question about that. It was wrong . . . and I don't want you to think that, you know, that it's typical practice for me. I've never cheated on Naya before. Never . . . You believe that, don't you?"

I tell him that of course I believe him. I want to believe him.

Another silence.

"So, yeah, that was a first for me," he says.

More silence. I picture him with his feet up on his desk, his collar loosened, and tie thrown over his shoulder. He looks good in a suit. Well, he looks good in anything. And nothing.

"Uh huh," I say. I am gripping the phone so tightly that my fingers hurt. I switch hands and wipe my sweaty palm on my skirt.

"I feel so bad that you've been friends with Naya forever, and this thing that happened between us . . . it puts you in a really fucked up position." He clears his throat and continues. "But at the same time, I don't know . . ."

"What don't you know?" I ask, against my better judgment to end the conversation, hang up the phone, and choose the flight instinct that has always served me well.

"I don't know. I just . . . well, in some ways . . . well, objectively speaking, I know what I did was so wrong. But I just don't feel guilty. Isn't that awful? . . . Do you think less of me?"

I have no idea how to answer this one. "Yes" seems mean and judgmental; "no" might open the floodgates. I find safe, middle ground. "I have no room to judge anyone, do I? I was there . . . I did it too."

"I know, Demi. But it was my fault."

"We were both at fault . . . We were both drunk. It must have been the shots. They just snuck up on me and I hadn't really eaten much that day," I ramble, hoping that we are nearly finished.

Trey interrupts. "I wasn't that drunk," he states plainly, almost defiantly.

You weren't that drunk?

As though he has read my mind, he continues. "I mean, yes, I had a few drinks, my inhibitions certainly were lowered, but I knew what I was doing, and on some level, I think I wanted it to happen. Well, I suppose that's a rather obvious statement . . . But what I mean is that I think I consciously wanted it to happen. Not that it was premeditated. But it had crossed my mind before . . ."

When? In law school? Before or after you met Naya?

I suddenly recall one pre-Naya occasion when Trey and I were studying for our exam in the library. It was late and we were both delirious from lack of sleep and too much caffeine. Trey started imitating Zigman, quoting certain pet phrases of his, as I laughed so hard that I started to cry. When I finally got ahold of myself, he leaned across the narrow table and wiped a tear off my face with his thumb. Just like a scene in a movie, only usually those are sad tears. Our eyes locked.

I looked away first, returning my eyes to my book, the words jumping all over the page. I couldn't for the life of me focus on anything. Only the feel of his thumb on my face. Later, Trey offered to walk me back to my dorm. I politely declined, telling him that I'd be fine on my own. As I was falling asleep that night, I decided that I had imagined his intent that Trey would never care for me as more than a friend. He was only being nice.

Still, I sometimes wondered what would have happened if I hadn't been so guarded. If I had said yes to his offer that night. I am wondering now in a big way.

Trey keeps talking. "Of course, I'm well aware it can never happen again," he says with conviction. "Right?" The last word is earnest, almost vulnerable.

"Right. Never ever again," I say, immediately regretting my choice of words. "It was a mistake."

"But I don't regret it. I should, but I just don't," he says.

This is so weird, I think, but say nothing. Just sit dumbly, waiting for him to speak again.

"So anyway, Demi, I'm sorry for putting you in this position. But I thought you should know how I feel," he finishes, then laughs nervously.

I say okay, well now I know, and I guess we should move on and put this behind us, and all of those other things that I thought Trey was calling to tell me. We say goodbye, then I hang up and stare out my window in a daze. The call that was supposed to bring closure only ushered in more uneasiness. And a tiny little stirring inside me, a stirring that I resolve to squelch.

I stand up, turn off my office light, and walk down to the subway, trying to put Trey out of my head. But as I wait on the subway platform, my mind returns to our kiss in the elevator. The way he looked sleeping in my bed, half-covered by my sheets. Those are the images that I remember the most. They are like the photographs of ex-boyfriends that you desperately want to throw away, but you can't bring yourself to get rid of them. So instead you store them in an old shoe box, in the back of your closet, figuring that it doesn't hurt to save them. Just in case you want to open that box and remember some of the good times.


	4. Chapter 4

We are days away from the official start of the summer and all Naya can talk about is the Hamptons. She call and texts me constantly, forwarding information about Memorial Day parties, restaurant reservations, and sample sales where we are guaranteed to find the cutest summer clothes. Of course, I am absolutely dreading all of it. Like the four previous summer, I am in a house with Naya and Trey. This year we are also sharing with Sean, Kate, and Dianna.

"You think we should've gotten a full share?" Naya asks for at least the twentieth time. She has buyer's remorse when she leaves Cold Stone.

"No, a half share is enough. You never end up using the full share," I say, the phone tucked under my ear as I continue to revise my memo summarizing the difference between Florida and New York excess insurance law.

"Are you typing?" Naya demands, always expecting my full attention.

"No," I lie, typing more quietly.

"You better not be…"

"I'm not."

"Well, I guess you're right, a half share is better…And we have a lot of wedding stuff to do in the city anyway."

The wedding is the only topic I wish to avoid more than the Hamptons. "Uh huh."

"So are you going to drive out with us or take the train?"

"Train. I don't know if I can get out of here at a decent hour," I say, thinking that I do not want to be stuck in a car with her and Trey. I have not seen Trey since he left my apartment. I haven't seen Naya either.

"Really? Cause I was thinking that we should definitely drive….Wouldn't you rather have a car the first weekend out? You know, especially because it's going to be a long weekend. We don't want to be stuck with cabs and stuff….Come on! Ride with us!"

"We'll see," I say, as a mother tells a child so the child drops the topic.

"Not 'we'll see.' You're coming with us."

I sigh and tell her that I really should get back to work.

"Okay. Fine. I'll let you go work at your oh so important job…So we still on for tonight?"

"What's tonight?"

"Hello? Ms. Forgetful. Don't even tell me you have to work late. You promised. Bikinis? Ring a bell?"

"Oh, right," I say. I had completely forgotten my promise to go bathing suit shopping with her. One of the least pleasant tasks in the world. "Yeah. Sure, I can still do it."

"Great. I'll meet you at the yogurt counter in the basement of Bloomie's. You know, next to the fat women's clothes. At seven sharp."

* * *

I arrive at the 59th street station 15 minutes after our designated meeting time and run into the basement of Bloomingdale's, nervous that Naya will bitch I do not feel up to talking her out of one of her moods. But she looks content sitting at the counter waiting for her frozen yogurt. She smiles and waves. I take a deep breath, reminding myself that there is no scarlet letter on my chest.

"Hi Nay."

"Hey! Oh my God, I'm going to be so fucking bloated trying on suits." She points at her stomach with her plastic spoon. "But whatever, I'm used to being a fatty."

I roll my eyes. "You are not fat."

We go through it every year

"I am so fat, I totally am! And I chowed at lunch but whatever. As long as I'm not fat cow in my wedding dress…." She says, finishing her last spoonful of yogurt and tossing the cup in the trash. "Just tell me I have plenty of time to lose weight before the wedding."

"You have plenty of time," I tell her.

Just like I have plenty of time before the wedding to stop thinking about the fact that I fucked your husband to be.

"I better rein it in, you know, or else I'm going to have to shop here." Naya points at the plus size section without checking to see if any larger women are within earshot.

I tell her she's being ridiculous.

"So anyway," she says, as we ride the escalator up to the 2nd floor, "Kate was saying that we're getting too old for bikinis. That one pieces are classier. What do you think of that?" Her expression and tone make it clear what she thinks of Kate's view on things.

"I don't think there are age limits on bikinis," I say. Kate is full of exhausting rules.

"Exactly! That's what I told her…Besides, she's probably just saying that because she looks bad in a bikini, don't you think?"

I nod. Kate works out religiously and hasn't touched fired food in years, but she is destined to be lumpy.

We make our way around the floor, searching the racks for acceptable suits. At one point, I notice that we have both selected a basic black bikini. If we both end up wanting it, Naya will either insist that she found it first or she'll say that we can get the same one. Then she will attempt to convince everyone that she looks better in it all summer. No, thanks.

I replace the black bikini on the rack as we make our way to the long line for the dressing rooms. When one becomes available, Naya decides that we should share a room to save time. She strips down to her underwear and bra, contemplating which suit she should try on first. I steal a look at her in the mirror. Her body is even better than it was last summer. Her long limbs are perfectly toned from her wedding workout regimen.

I think of Trey. Surely he compared our bodies after our night together. Mine isn't nearly as good. At least I don't think so. I'm shorter, softer, whiter and my boobs are smaller.

"Stop looking at my fat!" Naya squeels, catching my glance in the mirror.

Now I am forced to compliment her. "You're not fat, Nay. You look great. I can tell you've been working out."

"You can? What body part has improved?" Naya likes her praise to be specific.

"Just everywhere. Your legs look thin, good." That is all she is getting from me.

She studies her legs, frowning at the reflection.

I undress and quickly try on my first bikini, a navy and white one.

"Oh my God! That looks so awesome on you! You've got to get it!" Naya says." Are you getting it?"

"I think so," I say. It doesn't look awesome, but it'll do. I have studied enough magazines about suits and body flaws over the years to know which look good on me. This one passes.

Naya puts on a tiny black bikini with a triangular top and bare coverage in the bottom. She looks hot. "You like?"

"It's good," I say, thinking Trey will love it.

"Should I get it?"

I tell her to try the others on before making a decision. She obeys, taking the next one off the hanger. Of course, every suits looks amazing on her. She falls into none of those categories of body flaws in the magazines. After much discussion, I settle on the bikini from earlier and Naya decides on three tiny ones.

As we go to pay for our suits, Naya grabs my arm. "Oh, shit! I almost forgot to tell you!"

"What?" I ask, unnerved by her sudden outburst, even though I know she isn't going to say, "I forgot to tell you that I know you slept with Trey!"

"Sean likes you!" We might as well be in the tenth grade, from her tone and use of the word "likes."

I am intentionally obtuse. "I like him too," I say. "He's a nice guy." And a damn good alibi.

"No, silly. I mean, he likes you. You must've done a good job at the party because he called Trey and got your number. I think he's going to ask you out for this weekend. Of course, I wanted it to be a double date, but Sean said no, he doesn't want witnesses." She drops her bikinis onto the counter and fumbles in her purse for her wallet.

"He got my number from Trey?" I ask, thinking that this is quite a development.

"Yeah. Trey was cute when he told me about it. He was…" She looks up, searching for the right word. "Sort of protective of you."

"What do you mean by protective?" I ask, more interested in Trey's role in this exchange that in Sean's intentions.

"Well, he gave Sean the number, but when he got off the phone, he asked me all these questions, like were you seeing anyone and did I think you would like Sean. And you know, was he smart enough for you. Stuff like that. It was really cute."

I digest this information as the store clerk rings up Naya's bikinis.

"So what did you tell him?"

"I just said that you were totally single and that of course you'd be into Sean. He's such a sweetie, don't you think?"

I shrug. Sean moved to New York a few months ago. I know very little about him, except that he and Trey became friends at Georgetown.

"So are you excited? If you get a date in with him before our share starts, you will have dibs on him over Kate and Dianna."

I laugh and shake my head.

"Seriously." Naya signs her receipt and flashes a smile at the clerk. "Kate would love to sink her nails into him."

"Who said I'm going on a date?"

"Oh please,. Don't even start with that shit. You're going. A.) He's fucking hot and B.) Demi, no offense, but you can't exactly afford to be all picky, Ms. Haven't Been Laid in…what? Over a year?"

The store clerk looks up at me sympathetically. I glare at Naya as I slide my bikini across the counter. Yeah, right. A year…

We leave Bloomingdale's and look for a cab.

"So, you'll go out with Sean?"

"I guess so."

"Promise?" she asks, getting her cell phone out of her purse.

"You want me to take a blood oath? Yes, I'll go," I say. "Who are you calling?"

"Trey. He bet me twenty bucks that you wouldn't go."

* * *

Naya's right. I have nothing else going on. But the real reason I say yes to Sean when he calls and asks me out is that Trey said I wouldn't go. And just in case he thought he had cast some sort of spell over me and I was going to turn Sean down because I'm preoccupied with the incident, I will go out with Sean.

But as soon as I say yes, I start obsessing about what Sean really knows. Did Trey tell him anything? I decide that I have to call Trey and find out. I hang up three times before I can dial the full number. My stomach is churning when he answers on the first ring. "Hey."

"So what exactly does Sean know about what happened last Saturday?" I blurt out, my heart racing.

"Well, hello to you too," he says.

I soften slightly. "Hi Trey."

"Last Saturday? What was last Saturday? Refresh my memory."

"I'm being serious! What did you tell him?" I am horrified to find myself talking in the girly, whiny way that Naya has perfected."

"What do you think I told him?" he asks.

"Tremaine, tell me!"

"Alright, calm down," he says, his tone still one of amusement. "I didn't tell him anything…What do you think this is? A high school locker room? Why would I tell anyone our business?"

Our business. Our. We. Us.

"I was just wondering what he knew. I mean, you told Naya you were with him that night…"

"Yeah, I said, 'Sean, I was with you last night and we had breakfast together this morning, alright?' And that was that. I know that's not how it works with you girls…women."

"What is that supposed to mean?"  
"I mean you and Naya share every exhaustive detail with one another. Like, what you ate that day and what brand of shampoo you plan on buying."

"And like when you sleep with one another's fiancés? That sort of detail?"

Trey laughs. "Yeah, that would be another example."

"Or like your bet that I'd say no to Sean?"

He laughs again, knowing that he is busted. "She told you that, did she?"

"Yeah, she told me that."

"And did it offend you?"

I realize that I am starting to relax, almost enjoying the conversation. "No….but it made me say yes to Sean."

"Oh!" he laughs. "I see how it is. So you're saying that had she not shared that piece of information with you, you would turned my boy down?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" I ask coyly, hardly recognizing myself.

"I would actually. Enlighten me please."

"I'm not sure…Why did you think I'd say no?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" he retorts.

I smile. This is full-fledged flirtatious banter.

"Okay. I thought you'd say no because Sean doesn't seem to be your type," he finally says.

"And who is?" I ask, and then feel instantly remorseful. Flirting like this is not the path to redemption. It is no way to right my wrong. This is what my brain tells me, but my heart is galloping as I await his answer.

"I don't know. I've been trying to figure that out for years."

I wonder what he means by this statement. I twist the cord around my fingers and can think of nothing to say in response. We should hang up now. This is going in a bad direction.

"Dem?" His voice is low and intimate.

I feel breathless, hearing him say my name like this. The one syllable is familiar, warm. "Yeah?"

"You still there?" he whispers.

I manage to say, "Yes, I'm still here."

"What are you thinking?"

"Nothing," I lie.

I have to lie. Because what I am thinking is, Maybe you are my type a little bit mor than I once thought.


	5. Chapter 5

On Saturday night, I cab down to Gotham Bar and Grill with an open mind and a positive attitude—half the battle before any date—thinking that maybe Sean will be the someone I am looking for.

I walk into the restaurant and spot him right away, sitting at the bar, wearing jeans and a slightly green tshirt with the sleeves rolled up and a ball cap.

"Sorry I'm late," I say, as Sean stands to greet me. "Had some trouble getting a cab."

"No worries," he says, offering me a stool next to his.

I sit down. He smiles, exposing two rows of very white, straight teeth. Possibly his best feature. Either that or the goatee.

"So what can I get you?" he asks me.

"What are you having?"

"Gin and tonic."

"I'll have the same."

He glances toward the bartender with a twenty extended and then looks back at me. "You look great, Demi."

I thank him. It's been a long time since I've received a proper compliment from a guy. It occurs to me that Trey and I didn't get around to compliments.

Sean finally gets the bartender's attention and orders me a Bombay Sapphire and tonic. Then he says, "So, last time I saw you we were all pretty drunk… That was a fun night."

"Yeah. I was pretty out of it," I say, hoping that Trey told me the truth about keeping Sean in the dark. "But at least I made it home before sunup. Naya told me you and Trey were out pretty late that night."

"Yeah. We hung out for a while," Sean says, without looking at me. This is a good sign. He is covering for his friend but has trouble lying. He takes his change from the bartender, leaves two bills and some coins on the bar, and hands me my drink. "Here you go."

"Thanks." I smile, stir, and sip from the skinny straw.

An Asian girl wearing leather pants and too much lip liner taps Sean on the arm and tells him that our table is ready. We carry our drinks, following her to the restaurant area beyond the bar. As we sit, she hands us two oversized menus and a separate wine list.

"Your server will be with you shortly," she says, before flipping her long, black hair and walking off.

Sean glances at the wine list and asks if I want to order a bottle.

"Sure," I say.

"Red or white?"

"Either."

"Do you think you're going to have fish?" He looks at the menu.

"Maybe. But I don't mind red with fish."

"I'm not very good at picking wines," he says, cracking his knuckles below the table. "You wanna have a look?"

"That's okay. You can pick. Whatever is fine."

"All right then. I'll wing it," he says, flashing me his "I never skipped a night wearing my retainer" smile.

We study our menus, discussing what looks good. Sean slides his chair closer to the table, and I feel his knee against mine.

"I almost didn't ask you out, since we're in the same summer house and all," Sean says, his eyes still scanning the menu. "Trey told me that's one of the cardinal rules here. Don't get involved with someone in your house. At least not until August."

He laughs as I store away this fact for later analysis: Trey discouraged our date.

"But then I thought, you know, what the hell—I dig her, I'm going to call her. I mean, I've been thinking about asking you out since Trey first introduced us. Right when I moved here. But I was seeing this girl from San Francisco for a minute in there and thought I should wrap things up before I called you. You know, just to make it all neat and kosher. So I finally ended that deal… And here we are." He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand as if relieved to make this confession.

"I think you made the right decision."

"To wait?" he asked.

"No. To call." I give him my most alluring smile, fleetingly reminding myself of Naya. She doesn't have the market cornered on female attractiveness, I think. I don't always have to be the serious, dowdy one.

Our waitress interrupts the moment. "Hello. How are you this evening?"

"Fine," Sean says cheerfully, and then lowers his voice. "For a first date."

I laugh, but our waitress musters only a stiff, tight-lipped smile. "Can I tell you about the specials?"

"Go for it," Sean says.

She stares into the space just above our heads, rattling off the list of specials, calling everything "nice"—"a nice sea bass," "a nice risotto," and so on. I nod and only half listen while I think about Trey telling Sean not to ask me out, wondering what that means.

"So would you like to start with something to drink?"

"Yeah… Think we're going with a bottle of red. What do you recommend?" He squints at the menu.

"The Marjorie pinot noir is superb." She points down at the wine list.

"Fine. That one then. Perfect."

She flashes another prim smile my way. "And are you ready to order?"

"Yes, I think we are," I say, and then order the garden salad and tuna.

"And how would you like that done?"

"Medium," I say.

Sean orders the pea soup and the lamb.

"Excellent choices," our waitress says, with an affected tilt of the head. She gathers our menus and turns on her heels.

"Man," Sean says.

"What?"

"That chick has zero personality."

I laugh.

He smiles. "Where were we?… Oh yeah, the Hamptons."

"Right."

"So Trey says it's never a good idea to go out with someone in your own house. And I'm like, 'Bruh, I'm not playin' by your dumb fucking East Coast rules.' If we end up hating each other, we hate each other."

"I don't think we're going to hate each other," I say.

Our waitress returns with the wine, uncorks the bottle, and pours some into his glass. Sean takes a healthy sip and reports that it's great, skipping the usual pretentious ceremony. You can tell a lot about a guy by watching him take that first sip of wine. It's not a good sign when he does the whole swirling thing, burying his nose into the glass, taking a slow, thoughtful sip, pausing with a furrowed brow followed by a slight nod so as not to appear too enthusiastic, as if to say, this passes, but I have had plenty better. If he is truly a wine connoisseur, that's one thing. But it is usually just a bunch of show, painful to observe.

As our waitress pours my wine, I ask Sean if he knows about the bet.

He shakes his head. "What bet?"

I wait until we are alone again—it's bad enough that our waitress knows this is a first date. "Trey and Naya had a bet about whether I'd say yes when you asked me out."

"Get the fuck outta here." He drops his jaw for effect. "Who thought you'd go and who thought you'd diss me?"

"Oh. I forget." I pretend to be confused. "That's not the point. The point is—"

"That they are so up and in our business!" He shakes his head. "Bastards."

"I know."

He lifts his glass. "To eluding Trey and Naya. No sharing details of tonight with those nosy motherfuckers."

I laugh. "No matter how great—or how bad—our date is!"

Our glasses touch and we sip in unison.

"This date is not going to be bad. Trust me on that."

I smile. "I trust you."

/ do trust him, I think. There is something disarming about his sense of humor, and easy, Midwestern style. And he's not engaged to Naya. A nice bonus.

Then, as if on cue, Sean asks me how long I've known Naya.

"Twenty-some years. First time I saw her she was all dressed up in this fancy little sundress, and I was wearing these dumb Winnie-the-Pooh shorts from Sears. I thought, now there's a girl with style."

Sean laughs. "I bet you looked cute in your Pooh shorts."

"Not quite…"

"And then you were the one who introduced Naya and Trey, right? He said you were good friends in college?"

Right. My good friend Tremaine. The last person I slept with.

"Uh-huh. I met him first semester of law school. I knew right away that he and Naya would make a good match," I say. A bit of an exaggeration, but I want to set the record straight that I never considered Trey for myself. Which I didn't. And still don't.

"They even look alike… No mystery as to how their kids will turn out."

"Yes. They will be beautiful." I feel an inexplicable knot in my chest, picturing Trey and Naya cradling their newborn. For some reason, I had never thought beyond the wedding in September.

"What?" Sean asks, obviously catching my expression. Which doesn't mean that he is perceptive, necessarily; my face is just less than inscrutable. It is a curse.

"Nothing," I say. Then I smile and sit up a bit straighter. It is time for a transition. "Enough about Trey and Naya."

"Yeah," he says. "I hear you."

We start the typical first-date conversation, discussing our jobs, our families and general backgrounds. We cover his Internet start-up that went under and his move to New York. Our food arrives. We eat and talk and order another bottle of wine. There is more laughter than silence. I am even comfortable enough to take a bite of his lamb when he offers it to me.

After dinner, Sean pays the bill. It is always an awkward moment for me, although offering to pay (whether sincerely or with the fake reach for the wallet) is so much more awkward. I thank him, and we make our way to the door, where we decide to get another drink.

"You pick a place," Sean says

I choose a new bar that just opened near my apartment. We get in a cab, talking the whole way to the Upper East Side. Then we sit at the bar, talking more.

I ask him to tell me about his hometown in Michigan. He pauses for a beat and then says he has a good story for me.

"Only about ten percent of my senior class went to college," he starts. "Most students don't even bother with SATs at my high school. But I took the thing, did fine on it, applied to Georgetown, and got in. Of course, I didn't mention it to anyone at school—just went about my business, hanging with my boys and whatnot. Then the faculty catches wind of the Georgetown thing and one day my math teacher, Mr. Gilhooly, takes it upon himself to announce my good news to the class."

He shakes his head as if the memory is painful. "So everyone was like, 'So what? Big fucking deal.'" Sean imitates his bored classmates by folding his arms across his chest and then patting his mouth with an open hand. "And I guess their reaction pissed Mr. Gilhooly off. He wanted them to truly grasp the depth of their inadequacies and future doom. So he proceeded to draw this big graph on the board showing my earning potential with a college degree versus their earning potential bussing tables at Shoney's. And how the gap would get worse and worse with time."

"No way!"

"Yeah. So they're all sitting there like, 'Fuck Sean,' right? Like I think I'm the shit 'cause I'm going to make six figures someday. I wanted to kill that dude." Sean throws up his hands. "Thanks for nothing, Mr. Gilhooly. Way to win me some friends."

I laugh.

"So what the fuck am I supposed to do now? I gotta fight the image of the fucking loser, right? So I go out of my way to show everybody I don't give a shit about academics. Started smokin' weed every day, and never stopped the practice in college. Hence, well, you know, my finishing next to last at Georgetown. I'm sure you've heard about the remote?" he asks, peeling the label off his Heineken.

I smile and tap his hand. "Yeah. I know the story. Except the version I heard was that you were dead last."

"Aww, man!" Sean shakes his head. "Trey never gets that shit right. My two-point-six-seven beat someone out! Next to last, bro! Next to last!"

After two drinks, I glance at my watch and say it's getting late.

"Okay. I'll walk you home?"

"Sure."

We stroll over to Third Avenue and stop in front of my apartment.

"Well, good night, Sean. Thank you so much for dinner. I had a really nice time," I say, meaning it.

"Yeah. So did I. It was good." He licks his lips quickly. I know what is coming. "And I'm glad we're in the same house this summer."

"I am too."

Then he asks if he can kiss me. It is a question I don't usually like. Just do it, I always think. But for some reason it doesn't bother me coming from Sean.

I nod and he leans over and gives me a long kiss.

We separate. My heart isn't palpitating, but I am content.

"You think Naya and Trey bet on that?" he asks.

I laugh because I had been wondering the same thing.

"How did it go?" Naya yells into the phone the next morning.

I am just out of the shower, dripping wet. "Where are you?"

"In the car with Trey. We're on our way back to the city," she says. "We went antiquing. Remember?"

"Yes," I say. "I remember."

"How did it go?" she asks again, smacking her gum. She can't even wait until she gets home to get the scoop on my date.

I don't answer.

"Well?"

"We have a bad connection. Your cell is breaking up," I say. "I can't hear you."

"Nice try. Give me the goods."

"What goods?"

"Demi! Don't play dumb with me. Tell me about your date! We're dying to know."

I hear Trey echo her in the background. "Just dying!"

"It was a lovely evening," I say, trying to wrap a towel around my head without dropping the phone.

She squeals. "Yes! I knew it. So details! Details!"

I tell her that we went to Gotham Bar and Grill, I ordered the tuna, he had lamb.

"Demi! Get to the good stuff! Did you hook up?"

"I can't tell you that."

"Why not?"

"I have my reasons."

"That means you did," she says. "Otherwise you'd just say no."

"Think what you want."

"C'mon, Demi!"

I tell her no way, I am not going to be her car-ride entertainment. She reports my words to Trey and I hear him say, "Justin Timberlake is our car-ride entertainment. Tell her that."

Tunnel Vision is playing in the background.

"Tell Tremaine that's Justin's worst album."

"They're all bad albums. Justin Timberlake sucks," Naya says.

"Did she just say this album is bad?" I hear Trey ask Naya.

Naya says yeah and a few seconds later "Strawberry Bubblegum" is blaring. Naya shouts at him to turn it down. I smile.

"So?" Naya asks. "Are you going to tell us or not?"

"Not."

"If I promise not to tell Trey?"

"Still not."

Naya makes an exasperated sound. Then she tells me that she will find out one way or another and hangs up.

The next I hear from Trey is on Thursday night, the day before we are scheduled to leave for the Hamptons.

"Do you want a ride? We have room for one more," he says. "Kate's coming with us. And your boyfriend's in."

"Well, in that case, I'd love a ride," I say, trying to sound breezy and casual. I need to show him that I've moved on. I have moved on.

At five o'clock the next day, we are assembled in Trey's car, hoping to get ahead of the traffic. But the roads are already clogged. It takes us an hour to get through the Midtown Tunnel and nearly four hours to make the 110-mile drive to East Hampton. I sit in the backseat between Kate and Sean. Naya is in a giddy, hyper mood. She spends most of the car ride facing the three of us in the backseat, raising various topics, asking questions, and generally carrying the conversation. She makes things feel celebratory; her good moods are as infectious as her bad ones are contaminating. Sean is the second most talkative in our group. For a thirty-mile stretch, he and Naya are a running comedy routine, making fun of each other. She calls him lazy, he calls her high maintenance. Kate and I chime in occasionally. Trey says virtually nothing. He is so quiet that at one point Naya yells at him to stop being such a bore.

"I'm driving," he says. "I need to concentrate."

Then he looks at me in the rearview mirror. I wonder what he's thinking. His eyes give nothing away.

It is getting dark when we stop for snacks and beers at a gas station on Route 27. Kate sidles up to me in front of the chips, loops her arm through mine, and says, "I can tell he really likes you." For a second I am startled, thinking that she means Trey. Then I realize she is talking about Sean.

"Sean and I are just friends," I say, selecting a can of Pringles Light.

"Oh, c'mon now. Naya told me about your date," she says.

Kate is always in the know about everything—the latest trend, the hot new bar opening, the next big party. She has her manicured fingers on the pulse of the city. And knowing the details of Manhattan's singles is part of her bag too.

"It was just one date," I say, happy that Naya has not determined what happened with Sean, despite a barrage of questioning. She even probed him with an e-mail; he forwarded me the message with his subject line reading "Nosy Motherfuckers."

"Well, the summer is long," Kate says wisely. "You're smart not to commit until you see what else is out there."

We arrive at our summer house, a small cottage with limited charm. Kate found it when she came out alone in mid-February, disgusted with all of us for not sacrificing a free weekend to house-hunt. She organized everything, including setting up the other half of the share. As we tour the house, she apologizes again for the lack of a pool, and laments that the common areas aren't really large enough for good parties. We reassure her that the big backyard with a grill makes up for that. Plus, we are close enough to the beach to walk, which, in my opinion, is the most important thing about a summerhouse.

We unpack the car and find our bedrooms. Naya and Trey have the room with the king-sized bed. Sean has his own room, which could come in handy. And Kate has her own room—a reward for her efforts. I am rooming with Dianna, who blew off work today and took the train in last night. Dianna is always blowing off work. I don't know anyone more laid-back about work, particularly at a big firm. She comes to work late every day—closer and closer to eleven with each passing year—and she refuses to play the games that other associates play, like leaving a jacket on the back of their chair or a cup full of coffee on their desk before leaving at night so that partners will think they've only left for a short break. She billed fewer than two thousand hours last year and therefore received no bonus. "Do the math and you'll realize that making a bonus comes out to less per hour than flipping burgers at McDonald's," she said this year on the day checks were handed out.

I call her on my cell now. "Where are you?"

"Cyril's," she shouts over the crowd. "Want me to stay here or meet you guys somewhere?"

I pass along the question to Naya and Kate.

"Tell her we're going straight to the Talkhouse," Naya says. "It's already late."

Then, as I expected, Kate and Naya insist on changing their clothes. And Sean, who is still wearing his work clothes, goes to change too. So Trey and I sit in the den, opposite each other, waiting. He holds the remote control but does not turn the TV on. It is the first time we have been alone since the incident. I am conscious of sweat accumulating under my arms. Why am I nervous? What happened is behind us. It is over. I must relax, act normal.

"Aren't you going to doll up for your boyfriend?" Trey asks quietly, without looking at me.

"Very funny." Even the mere exchange of words now feels illicit.

"Well, aren't you?"

"I'm fine in this," I say, glancing down at my favorite jeans and black crop top. What he doesn't know is that I already put much thought into this outfit when I changed after work.

"So you and Sean make a great couple." He glances furtively at the staircase.

"Thanks. So do you and Naya."

We exchange a lingering look, too loaded with potential meaning to begin to interpret. And then, before he can respond, Naya bounds down the stairs in a curve-hugging chartreuse sheath. She hands Trey a pair of scissors and crouches at his feet, lifting her hair. "Can you cut the tag, please?"

He snips. She stands and spins.

"Well? How do I look?"

"Nice," he says, and then glances at me sheepishly as if the one-word compliment to his fiancée might somehow upset me.

"You look awesome," I say, to show him that it doesn't. Not in the least.

We pay the cover and make our way through the massive crowd at Stephen's Talkhouse, our favorite bar in Amagansett, saying hello to all of the people we know from various circles back in the city. We find Dianna at the bar with a Budweiser, wearing cutoff jeans, a white scoop-neck T-shirt, and the kind of plain blue flip-flops that Naya and Kate would only wear to their pedicurist. There is not a pretentious bone in Dianna's body, and as always, I am so happy to see her.

"Hey, guys!" she yells. "What took you so long?"

"Traffic was a bitch," Trey says. "And then certain people had to get ready."

"Well, of course we had to get ready!" Naya says, looking down to admire her outfit.

Dianna insists that we need a kick start to our evening and orders a round of shots. She hands them out as we stand in a tight circle, ready to drink together.

"To the best summer ever!" Naya says, tossing her long, coconut-scented hair behind her shoulders. She says it at the start of every summer. She always has wildly high expectations that I never share. But maybe this summer she will be right.

We all throw back our shots, which taste like straight vodka. Then Trey buys another round, and when he hands me my beer, his fingers graze mine. I wonder if he does it on purpose.

"Thank you," I say.

"Anytime," he murmurs, holding my gaze as he did in the car.

I count to three silently and then look away.

As the night wears on, I find myself watching Trey and Naya interact. I am surprised by the territorial pangs I feel as I observe them together. It is not exactly jealousy, but something related to it. I notice little things that didn't use to register. Like once, she slipped her four fingers into the back of his jeans right at the top. And another time, when he was standing behind her, he gathered all of her hair in one hand and sort of held it up in a makeshift ponytail before dropping it back at her shoulders.

Right now, he leans in to say something to her. She nods and smiles. I imagine that his words were "I want you tonight" or something along those lines. I wonder if they have had sex since he and I were together. Surely, yes. And that bothers me in some weird way. Maybe that happens whenever you watch someone on your List with someone else. I tell myself that I have no right to be jealous. That I had no business adding him to my List in the first place.

I try to focus on Sean. I stand near him, talk to him, laugh at his jokes. When he asks me to dance, I say yes without hesitation. I follow him onto the crowded dance floor. We work up a good sweat, dancing and laughing. I realize that although there is no great chemistry, I am having fun. And who knows? Maybe this will lead to something.

"They're dying to know what happened on our date," Sean says into my ear.

"Why do you say that?" I ask.

"Naya inquired again."

"She did?"

"Yup."

"When?"

"Tonight. Right after we got here."

I hesitate and then ask, "Did Trey say anything?"

"No, but he was standing right next to her looking pretty darn interested."

"Some nerve," I say playfully.

"I know, the nosy motherfuckers… And don't look now, but they're staring at us." His face touches mine, his whiskers scratching my cheek.

I drape my arms over his shoulders and move my body flush against his. "Well then," I say. "Let's give them something to look at."


	6. Chapter 6

So what's the deal with you and Sean?" Dianna asks me the next morning as she picks through the pile of clothes that have already accumulated beside her bed. I resist the urge to fold them for her.

"No deal, really." I get out of bed and promptly start to make it.

"Potential?" She pulls on a pair of sweats and ties the drawstring, cinching them at hip level.

"Maybe."

Last year Dianna broke up with Dylan, her boyfriend of four years, a nice, smart, all-around great guy. But Dianna was convinced that as good as the relationship was, it wasn't good enough. "He's not the one," she kept saying. 1 remember Naya informing her that she might revise that opinion in her mid-thirties, a statement Dianna and I both rehashed at length later. A classic, tactless Nayaism. Yet, as time passes, I can't help wondering if Dianna made a mistake. Here she is, one year later, embroiled in the fruitless blind-dating scene while, rumor has it, her ex has moved into a Tribeca loft with a twenty-three-year-old med student who is a dead ringer for Anna Kendrick. Dianna claims that it doesn't bother her. I find that very hard to believe, even for someone with her moxie. In any case, she doesn't seem to be in a hurry to find a Dylan replacement.

"Summer potential or long-term potential?" she asks me, running her hands through her shoulder length, blonde hair.

"I don't know. Maybe long-term potential."

"Well, you looked like a total couple last night," she says. "Out there dancing."

"We did?" I ask, thinking that if we looked like a couple, Trey must know that I'm not dwelling on him.

She nods, finds her "Corporate Challenge" T-shirt, and sniffs the armpits before tossing it over to me. "Is this clean? Smell it."

"I'm not gonna smell your shirt," I say, throwing it back. "You're gross."

She laughs and puts on her obviously clean enough shirt. "Yeah… You two were out there whispering and laughing. I thought for sure you were going to hook up last night, and that I would get the room to myself."

I laugh. "Sorry to disappoint."

"You disappointed him more."

"Nah. He just said good night when we got home. Not even a kiss."

Dianna knows about the first kiss. "Why not?"

"I don't know. I think we're both proceeding with caution. We'll have a lot of contact between now and September… You know, he's in the wedding party too. If things blow up, it could be bad."

She looks as if she is considering my point. For one second I am tempted to tell Dianna everything about Trey. I trust her. But I don't share, reasoning that I can always tell her, but I can't untell her and erase the knowledge from her mind. When we are all together, I would feel even more awkward, constantly thinking that she's thinking about it. And anyway… it is over. There is really nothing to talk about.

We go downstairs. Our housemates have already assembled around the kitchen table.

"It's amazing outside," Naya says, standing, stretching, and showing off her flat stomach under a cropped T-shirt. She sits back down at the table, returning to her game of solitaire.

Kate looks up from her phone. "Perfect beach weather."

"Perfect golf weather," Dianna says, looking at Trey and Sean. "Any interest?"

"Urn, maybe," Trey says, glancing up from the sports page. "Want me to call and see if we can get a tee time?"

Naya slams her cards onto the table and looks around defiantly.

Dianna doesn't seem to notice Naya's objection to a round of golf because she says, "Or we could just pop over to the driving range."

"No! No! No! No golf!" Naya pounds the table again, this time with her fist. "Not on our first day! We have to stay together! All of us. Right, Demi?"

"Guess that means no golf today," Trey says, before I am forced to become involved in the great golf debate. "Naya's orders."

Dianna gets up from the table with a disgusted look on her face.

"I just want us all to be together at the beach," Naya says, putting a benevolent spin on her selfishness.

"And you make the prospect seem so pleasant." Trey stands, walks over to the sink, and starts making coffee.

"What's your problem?" Naya says to his back as if he is the one who just told her how to spend the day. "You are being such a Debbie downer, geez."

"What's a Debbie downer?" Sean asks, scratching his ear. It is his first contribution to the morning conversation. He still looks half asleep. "I'm not familiar."

"Just have a look at one right now," Naya says, pointing at Trey. "He's been in a bad mood since we got here."

"No, I haven't," Trey says. I want him to turn around so I can read his expression.

"Have too. Hasn't he?" Naya demands an answer from the rest of us, looking at me specifically. Being friends with Naya has taught me the art of smoothing over. But sleeping with her fiancé has dulled my instinct. I am not in the mood to chime in. And nobody else wants to become embroiled in what should be their private argument. We all shrug or look away.

In truth, though, Trey has been somewhat subdued. I wonder if I have anything to do with his mood. Maybe it bothered him, watching me with Sean. Not full-blown jealousy, just the territorial pangs that I experienced. Or perhaps he's only thinking about Naya, seeing her for the controlling person she is. I've always been aware of Naya's demands—you can't miss them—but lately, I have been less tolerant of her. I am tired of her always getting her way. Maybe Trey feels the same.

"What are we doing for breakfast?" Sean asks through a loud yawn.

Kate glances at her diamond-studded Cartier. "You mean brunch."

"Whatever. For food," Sean says.

We discuss our options and decide to skip the crowded East Hampton scene. Dianna says that she bought the essentials the day before.

"By essentials, do you mean Pop-Tarts?" Sean asks.

"Here." Dianna sets bowls, spoons, and a box of Rice Krispies on the table. "Enjoy."

Sean opens the box and pours some into his bowl. He looks across the table at me. "Want some?"

I nod, and he prepares my bowl. He doesn't ask anyone else if they want cereal, just pushes the box down the table.

"Banana?" he asks me.

"Yes, please."

He peels the banana and slices it into his bowl and mine, alternating every few slices. He takes the bruised section for himself. We are sharing a banana. This means something. Trey's eyes dart my way as Sean flicks the last neat cylinder into my bowl, leaving the nasty end piece in its peel where it belongs.

Several hours later, we are finally ready to go to the beach. Kate and Naya emerge from their rooms with their stylish canvas bags filled to the brim with plush new beach towels, magazines, lotions, thermoses, cell phones, and makeup. Dianna carries only a small bath towel from the house and a Frisbee. I am somewhere in between with a beach towel, my phone, and a bottle of water. The six of us walk in a row, our flip-flops smacking the pavement with that satisfying sound of summer. Kate and Dianna walk on either end, flanking the house couple and the possible couple-to-be. We cross the beach parking lot and climb over the dune, hesitating for a second to take in our first collective glimpse of the ocean. I am glad that I no longer live in landlocked, where people call Lake Michigan "the beach." The view is thrilling. It almost makes me forget that I slept with Trey.

Trey leads the way down the crowded beach, finding us a spot halfway between the dunes and the ocean where the sand is still soft but even enough to spread our towels. Sean puts his towel next to mine; Naya is on my other side, Trey next to her. Dianna and Kate set up in front of us. The sun is bright but not too hot. Kate warns us all about the UV rays, that these are the days when you really have to be careful. "You can get severe sun damage and not even realize it until it's too late," she says.

Sean offers to put suntan lotion on my back.

"No, thanks," I say. But as I struggle to reach the middle of my back, he takes the bottle from me and applies the lotion, meticulously maneuvering around the edges of my suit.

"Do mine, Trey," Naya says cheerfully, shedding her white shorts and squatting in front of Trey in her black bikini. "Here. Use the coconut oil, please."

Kate bemoans the lack of SPF in the oil, says we are too old to keep tanning and that Naya will be sorry when the wrinkles set in. Naya rolls her eyes and says she doesn't care about wrinkles, she lives in the moment. I know I will get an earful later, that Naya will tell me that Kate is just jealous because her fair skin goes straight from white to bright pink and Naya has a natural tan. I will never understand why she "tans" in the first place. "You'll regret it when you're forty," Kate says, her face shaded by a huge straw hat.

"No I won't. I'll just get laser resurfacing." Naya adjusts her bikini top and then coats more oil on her calves, using quick, efficient strokes.

Kate remarks that cosmetic surgery won't cure skin cancer.

"Oh, for fucks sake!" Naya says. "Stay under your damn hat then!"

Kate opens her mouth and then closes it quickly, looking injured. "Sorry. I was just trying to help."

Naya shoots her a conciliatory smile. "I know, hun. Didn't mean to snap at you."

Trey looks at me and makes a face, as if to say that he wishes both of them would shut up. It is the first direct communication we have had all day. I allow myself to smile back at him. His face breaks into a glorious grin. He is so handsome that it hurts. Like looking at the sun. He stands for a moment to adjust his towel, which has folded over in the wind. I look at his back and then down at his calves, feeling a surge of remembrance. He was in my bed. Not that I want a repeat performance. But oh, he has a nice body—lean but broad. I am not a body person, but I still appreciate a perfect one. He sits back down just as I look away.

Sean asks if anybody wants to play Frisbee. I say no, that I am too tired. But Dianna is a taker and off they go, the portrait of two well-adjusted beach-goers leaving the rest of us to it.

"Hand me my shirt," Naya says to Trey.

"Please?"

"The 'please' is a given," Naya says.

"Say it," he says, popping a piece of gum into his mouth.

Naya hits him hard in the stomach.

"Ouch," he says in a monotone, to indicate that it didn't hurt in the slightest.

She winds up to hit him again, but he grabs her wrist.

"Try to behave. You're such a child," he says fondly. His edginess of this morning is gone.

"I am not," she says, sidling over to his towel. She presses her fingers into his chest, poised for a kiss.

I put on my sunglasses and look away. To say that what I am feeling is not jealousy is a stretch.

That night we all go to a party in Bridgehampton. The house is huge with a beautiful L-shaped pool surrounded by gorgeous landscaping and at least twenty tiki torches. I scan the guests in the backyard, noticing all of the purple, hot pink, and orange dresses and skirts. It seems that every woman read the same "bright colors are in, black is out" article that I read. I followed the advice and bought a lime green sundress that is too vivid and memorable to wear again before August, which means it will cost me about one hundred and fifty dollars per wear.

I go to the bathroom, and on my way back to find Dianna, I get stuck talking to Alison and James Malone. Alison used to work at my firm but quit the day after she got engaged to James. James is unattractive and humorless, but he has a huge trust fund. Hence Alison's interest. It was amusing to hear Alison explain to us that James has such a "big heart," blah blah blah, trying in vain to disguise her true intentions. I am envious of Alison's escape from firm hell, but I would rather be stuck billing than married to James.

"My life is so much better now," she chirps tonight. "That firm was poison! It was so stifling! I thought I might miss the intellectual stimulation… but I don't. Now I have time to read the classics and think. It's great. So liberating."

"Uh-huh… That's nice," I say, taking mental notes to share with Dianna later.

Alison goes on to tell me about their penthouse on the park and how she's been working so hard on decorating it and has had to fire three designers for not adhering to her vision. James contributes nothing to the conversation, just crunches his ice and looks bored. Once I catch him staring at Naya's butt, packed neatly into a pair of tight dark jeans.

Sean is suddenly beside me. I introduce him to James and Alison. James shakes his hand and then continues to mouth-breathe and look distracted. Alison promptly asks Sean where he lives and what he does for a living. Apparently his Murray Hill address and his marketing job don't quite measure up because they find an excuse to move on to more worthy guests.

Sean raises his eyebrows. "James, huh?"

"Yeah."

"Does he have a stick up his ass or what?"

I laugh.

He looks proud of his joke, pleased to make me laugh.

"So, are you having fun?"

"I guess so. You?"

He shrugs. "The people here kind of take themselves seriously, don't they?"

"That's the Hamptons."

I survey the party. It is a far cry from neighborhood barbecues back home. Part of me feels satisfied that I have expanded my horizons. But a larger part of me feels uncomfortable every time I come to a party like this one. I am a poser, attempting to mingle with people who consider home to be mere flyover country—necessary terrain to cross on their trips to Aspen or Los Angeles. I watch Naya making her rounds with Trey at her side. There is no trace of Indy left in her; to watch her you would guess that she grew up on Park Avenue. Her kids will grow up in Manhattan, for sure. When I have kids, if I ever have kids, I intend to move to the suburbs. I look at Sean, trying to imagine him dragging our son's Big Wheel out of the street. He looks down at our little boy, whose face is streaked with dried Popsicle, and instructs him to stay on the sidewalk. The boy has Sean's short eyes.

"C'mon," Sean says. "Let's get another drink." "All right," I say.

After the party, we find another party, and then do our usual finale at the Talkhouse, where I dance with Sean again. Around three o'clock, we all pile into the car and go home. Dianna and Kate head straight for bed while the two couples remain in the den. Naya and Trey hold hands on one love seat; Sean and I sit next to each other, but not touching, on the adjacent couch.

"All right, kids. It's past my bedtime," Naya says, standing suddenly. She glances at Tremaine. "You coming?"

My eyes meet Trey's. We look away simultaneously. "Yeah," he says. "I'll be right there."

The three of us talk for a few more minutes until we hear Naya calling Trey from the top of the stairs. "Come on, Trey! They want to be alone!"

Sean smirks while I study a freckle on my arm.

Trey clears his throat, coughs. His face is all business. "Okay then. Guess I'll head up. Good night."

"All right, man. See you tomorrow," Sean says.

I just mumble good night, too uncomfortable to look up as Trey leaves the room.

"Finally," Sean says. "Alone at last."

I feel an unexpected pang for Trey, but I push it away and smile at Sean.

He moves closer and kisses me without asking first this time. It is a nice enough kiss, maybe even nicer than our first one. For some reason,

The kiss starts to escalate and then I say, "Well, I think we should go to bed."

"Together?" he asks. I can tell he is joking.

"Very funny," I answer. "Good night, Sean."

I kiss him one more time before going to my room, passing Trey and Naya's closed door on the way.

The next morning I check my voice mail. Les has left me three messages. He might as well be a Jehovah's Witness, for as much attention as he pays to the holidays. He says that he wants "to go over a few things tomorrow, early afternoon." I know he is vague on purpose, not leaving a specific time or instructions to meet him at the office or call in. This way he can be sure that my Memorial Day is slashed in half. Dianna tells me to ignore him, pretend that I didn't get the message. Sean says to jam him with a message back, telling him to "fuck off—it's a national holiday." But of course I dutifully check the train and jitney schedule and decide I will leave this afternoon to avoid the traffic. Deep down, I know work is only an excuse to go—I have had enough of this whole bizarre dynamic. I like Sean, but it is exhausting being around a guy who, as Dianna would say, "is potential." And it is even more exhausting avoiding Trey. I avoid him when he is alone, avoid him when he is with Naya. Avoid dwelling on him and the Incident.

"I really need to get back," I sigh, as if it is the last thing I want to do.

"You can't leave!" Naya says.

"I have to."

As she sulks I want to point out that ninety percent of the time we are in the Hamptons, she is completely distracted, in social-butterfly mode. But I just say again that I have to.

"You're such a buzz kill."

"She can't help having to work, Naya," Trey says. Maybe he says it because she often calls him a buzz kill too. Then again, maybe he just wants me to leave for the same reasons I want to go.

After lunch I pack up my things and go into the den, where everyone is lazing around, watching television.

"Can someone give me a lift to the jitney?" I ask, expecting Naya, Dianna, or Sean to volunteer.

But Trey reacts first. "I'll take you," he says. "I want to go to the store anyway."

I say good-bye to everyone, and Sean squeezes my shoulder and says he'll give me a call next week.

Then Trey and I are off. Alone for four miles.

"Did you have a nice weekend?" he asks me as we are backing out of the driveway. Gone is any trace of the banter that surfaced right after the Incident. And he, like Naya, has stopped inquiring about Sean, perhaps because it is fairly evident that we have become some kind of item.

"Yeah, it was nice," I say. "Did you?"

"Sure," he says. "Very nice."

After a brief silence, we talk about work and mutual friends from law school, stuff we talked about before the Incident. Things seem normal again, or as normal as they can be after a mistake like ours.

We arrive at the jitney stop pulls into the parking lot, turns in his seat, and studies me with his brown eyes in a way that makes me look away. He asks what I am doing on Tuesday night.

I think I know what he's asking, but am not sure, so I babble. "Work. The usual. I have a deposition on Friday and haven't even started preparing for it. The only thing I have on my outline is 'Can you spell your last name for the court reporter?' and 'Are you on any medications that might impede your ability to answer questions at this deposition?'" I laugh nervously.

His face stays serious. He clearly has no interest in my deposition. "Look, I want to see you, Demi. I'm coming over at eight. On Tuesday."

And the way he says it—as a statement rather than a question—makes my stomach hurt. It isn't really the stomach pain I have before a blind date. It isn't the nervousness before a final exam. It isn't the "I'm going to get busted for doing something" feeling. And it isn't the dizzy sensation that accompanies a crush on a guy when he just acknowledged your presence with a smile or casual hello. It is something else. It is a familiar ache, but I can't quite place it.

My smile fades to match his serious face. I would like to say that his request surprised me, caught me off guard, but I think part of me expected this, even hoped for it, when Trey offered to drive me. I don't ask why he wants to see me or what he wants to talk about. I don't say that I have to work or that it's not a good idea. I just nod. "Okay."

I tell myself that the only reason I agree to see him is that we have to finish sorting out what happened between us. And therefore, I am not committing a further wrong against Naya; I'm simply trying to fix the damage already done. And I tell myself that if I do, in fact, actually want to see Trey for other reasons, it's only because I miss my friend. I think back to my birthday, our time in 7B before we hooked up, remembering how much I enjoyed his solo company, how much I enjoyed Trey removed from Naya's demands. I miss his friendship. I only want to talk to him. That is all.

The bus arrives and people start to file onto it. I slide out of the car without another word between us.

As I settle down in a window seat behind a perky blonde talking way too loudly on her cell phone, I suddenly know what it is in my stomach. It is the same way I felt after sex with my college boyfriend in those final days before he dumped me for the tree-hugging guitar player. It is a mixture of genuine emotion for another person and fear. Fear of losing something. I know at this moment that by allowing Trey to come over, I am risking something. Risking friendship, risking my heart.

The girl keeps talking, overusing the words "incredible" and "amazing" to describe her "woefully abbreviated" weekend. She reports that she has a "vicious migraine" from "bingeing big time" at the "fab party." I want to tell her that if she takes her volume down a notch, her headache might subside. I close my eyes, hoping that her phone battery is low. But I know that even if she stops her high-pitched chatter, there is no way I am going to be able to sleep with this feeling growing inside me. It is good and bad at the same time, like drinking too much Starbucks coffee. It is both exciting and scary, like waiting for a wave to crash over your head. Something is coming, and I am doing nothing to stop it.

It is Tuesday night, twenty minutes before eight. I am home. I have not heard from Trey all day so I assume we are still on. I floss and brush my teeth. I light a candle in the kitchen in case there is a lingering aroma of the Thai food I ordered the evening before for my solo Memorial Day dinner. I change out of my suit, put on black lacy underwear—even though I know, know, know that nothing is going to happen—jeans, and a T-shirt. I apply a touch of blush and some lip gloss. I look casual and comfortable, the opposite of how I feel.

At exactly eight, Eddie, who is subbing for Jose, rings my buzzer. "You have company," he bellows.

"Thanks, Eddie. Send him up."

Seconds later Trey appears in my doorway in a dark suit with faint gray pinstripes, a blue shirt, and a red tie.

"Your doorman was smirking at me," he says, as he steps into my apartment and tentatively looks around as if this were his first visit.

"Impossible," I say. "That's in your head."

"It's not in my head. I know a smirk when I see one."

"That's not Jose. Wrong doorman. Eddie's on tonight. You have a guilty conscience."

"I told you already. I don't feel that guilty about what we did." He looks steadily into my eyes.

I feel myself being sucked into his gaze, losing my resolve to be a good person, a good friend. I look away nervously, ask if he wants something to drink. He says a glass of water would be fine. No ice. I fill a glass for each of us and join him on my couch.

He takes several big gulps and then puts his glass down on a coaster on my coffee table. I sip from my glass. I can feel him staring at me, but I don't look back. I keep my eyes straight ahead, where my bed is situated—the scene of the Incident. I need to get a proper one-bedroom or at least a screen to separate my sleeping alcove from the rest of the apartment.

"Demi," he says. "Look at me."

I glance at him and then down at my coffee table.

He puts his hand on my chin and turns my face toward his.

I feel myself blush but don't move away. "What?" I release a nervous laugh. He doesn't change expression.

"Demi."

"What?"

"We have a problem."

"We do?"

"A major problem."

He leans forward, his left arm draped along the back of the sofa. He kisses me softly and then more urgently. I taste cinnamon. I think of the cinnamon gum that he had with him all weekend. I kiss him back.

And if I thought Sean was a good kisser, or my ex's before him, or anyone else for that matter, I thought wrong. In comparison, everyone else was merely competent. This kiss from Trey makes the room spin. And this time, it's not from booze. This kiss is like the kiss I have read about a million times, seen in the movies. The one I wasn't sure existed in real life. I have never felt this way before. Fireworks and all.

We kiss for a long, long time. Not breaking away once. Not even shifting positions on my couch even though we are at an unnatural distance for such an intense kiss. I can't speak for him, but I know why I don't move. I don't want it to end, don't want the next awkward stage to come, where we might ask the questions about what we are doing. I don't want to talk about Naya, to even hear her name. She has nothing to do with this moment. Nothing. This kiss stands on its own. It is removed from time or circumstance or their September wedding. That is what I try to tell myself. When Trey finally breaks away, it is only to move closer to me and put his arms around me and whisper into my ear, "I can't stop thinking about you."

I can't stop either.

But I can control what I'm doing. There is emotion, and then there is what you do about it. I pull away, but not too far away, and shake my head.

"What?" he asks gently, his arm partially around me.

"We shouldn't be doing this," I say. It is a watered-down protest, but at least it is something.

Naya can be annoying, controlling, and exasperating, but she is my friend. I am a good friend. A good person. This isn't who I am. I must stop. I won't know myself if I don't stop.

Yet I don't move away. Instead, I wait to be convinced otherwise, hoping he will talk me into it. And sure enough: "Yes. We should," he says. Trey's words are sure. No second-guessing, doubts, worry. He holds my face in his hands and stares intently into my eyes. "We have to."

There is nothing slick in his words, only sincerity. He is my friend, the friend I knew and cared for before Naya ever met him. Why didn't I recognize my feelings sooner? Why had I put Naya's interests ahead of my own? Trey leans in and kisses me again, softly but with a sense of absolute certainty.

But it's wrong, I silently protest, knowing that I am too late, that I have already surrendered. We have crossed a new line together. Because even though we have already slept together, that didn't really count. We were drunk, reckless. Nothing really happened until this kiss today. Nothing that couldn't have been stuffed into a closet, confused with a dream, maybe even forgotten altogether.

That is all changed now. For better or worse.


	7. Chapter 7

I have always done my best thinking in the shower. The night is for worrying, dwelling, analyzing. But in the morning, under the hot water, I see things clearly. So as I lather my hair, inhaling my grapefruit-scented shampoo, I pare everything down to the essential truth: what Trey and I are doing is wrong.

We kissed for a long time last night, and then he held me for even longer, few words passing between us. My heart thumped against his as I told myself that by not escalating the physical part we had scored a victory of sorts. But this morning, I know it was still wrong. Just plain wrong. I must stop. I will stop. Starting now.

When I was little, I used to count to three in my head when I wanted to give myself a fresh start. I'd catch myself biting my nails, jerk my fingers out of my mouth, and count. One. Two. Three. Go. Then I had a clean slate. From that point forward I was no longer a nail-biter. I used this tactic with many bad habits. So on a count of three, I will shake the Trey habit. I will be a good friend again. I will erase everything, fix it all.

I count to three slowly and then use the visualization technique that my friend Brandon told me he used during baseball season. He said he would picture his bat striking the ball, hear it crack, see the dust fly as he slid safely into home base. He focused only on his good plays and not the times he screwed up.

So I do this. I focus on my friendship with Naya, rather than my feelings for Trey. I make a video in my head, filling it with scenes of Naya and me. I see us hunkered down in her bed during an elementary-school sleepover. We are discussing our plans for the future, how many kids we will have, what we will name them. I see Naya, ten years old, propped up on her elbows, pinkies in her mouth, explaining that if you have three kids, the middle one should be a different sex from the others so everyone has something special. As if you can control such things.

I turn off the water, wrap a towel around my body and another over my head. I will call Tremaine as soon as I get to work. I will tell him that it has to stop. This time I really mean it. He is marrying Naya, and I am the maid of honor. We both love her. Yes, she has flaws. She can be spoiled, self-centered, and bossy, but she can also be loyal and kind and wildly fun. And she is the closest thing to a sister that I will ever have.

During my commute, I practice what I will say to Trey, even talking out loud at one point on the subway. When I finally arrive at work, I have my speech so memorized that it no longer sounds scripted. I've inserted the proper pauses into my Declaration of Mind-set and Future Intent. I am ready.

Just as I am about to make the phone call, I notice that I have an e-mail from Trey. I open it, expecting him to have reached the same conclusion. The subject line reads "You."

You are an amazing person, and I don't know where the feelings that you give me came from. What I do know is that I am completely and utterly into you and I want time to freeze so I can be with you all the time and not have to think of anything else at all. I like literally everything about you, including the way your face shows everything you're thinking and especially the way it looks when we are together and your hair is back and your eyes are closed and your lips are open just a little bit. Okay. That's all I wanted to say. Delete this.

I am breathless, dizzy. Nobody has ever written words like this to me. I read it again, absorbing every word. I like literally everything about you too, I think.

And just like that, my resolve is gone again. How can I end something that I have never experienced before? Something I have been waiting for my whole life? Nobody before Trey could make me feel this way, and what if I never find it again? What if this is it?

My phone rings. I answer it thinking it could be Trey, hoping it's not Naya. I can't talk to her right now. I can't think about her right now. I am buzzing from my electronic love letter.

"Cheers, baby."

It is Joe, calling from England, where he has lived for the past two years. I am so happy to hear his voice. He has a smiling voice, always sounding like he's on the verge of laughter. Most things about Joe are just as they were in the fifth grade. He is still compassionate, still has cherub cheeks that turn pink in the cold. But the voice is newer. It came in high school—with puberty—long after friendship had replaced my schoolgirl crush.

"Hi, Joe!"

"What's the statute of limitations on wishing someone a happy birthday?" he asks. Ever since I went to law school, he loves throwing out legal terms, often with a twist. "Strawberry tort" is his favorite.

I laugh. "Don't worry about it. It was only my 27th."

"Do you hate me? You should have called and reminded me. I feel like an absolute ass, after years of never forgetting. Shit. My mind is going and I'm still in my twenties."

"You forgot my twenty-fourth too," I interrupt him.

"I did?"

"Yeah."

"I don't think I did."

"Yeah—you were with GiGi—"

"Stop. Don't say that name. You're right. I forgot your twenty-fourth. That makes this infraction somehow less egregious, right? I didn't break a streak… So how is it?" He whistles. "Can't believe you're 27. You should still be fourteen. Do you feel older? Wiser? More worldly? What did you do on the big night?" He fires off his questions in his frenetic, attention-deficit-disorder way.

"It's the same. I'm the same," I lie. "Nothing's changed."

"Really?" he says. It is like him to ask the follow-up. It's as if he knows that I am holding back.

I pause, my mind racing. Do I tell? Not tell? What will he think of me?

What will he say? Ethan and I have remained close since high school, although our contact is sporadic. But whenever we do talk, we pick up where we left off. He would make a good confidant in this emerging saga. Joe knows all the major players. And more important, he knows what it's like to screw up.

"So what did you do for your birthday?" Joe asks.

I shut my office door and blurt it out. "Naya had a surprise party for me, I got wasted, and hooked up with Trey."

I suppose this is what happens when you're not accustomed to having secrets. You don't learn the art of holding back. In fact, I am surprised I have lasted this long. I hear static in the line as the news travels across the Atlantic. I panic, wishing I could suck the admission back in.

"Get the fuck outta here. You're kidding me, right?"

My silence tells him that I'm serious.

"Ohhh, shhhit." His voice is still smiling.

"What? What are you thinking?" I need to know if he's judging. I need to know what he thinks of me.

"Wait. What do you mean, hooked up? You didn't sleep with him, did you?"

"Um. Yeah. Actually I did."

I am relieved to hear him laugh, even though I tell him that it's not funny, that this is serious business.

"Oh, trust me. This is funny."

I picture the dimple in his left cheek. "And what exactly is so amusing?"

"Miss Goody Two-shoes screws her friend's fiancé. This is raw comedy at its best."

"Joe!"

He stops laughing long enough to ask if I could be knocked up.

"No. We had that covered."

"So to speak?"

"Yeah," I say. Any pun I ever make is an accident.

"So no harm done, right? It was a mistake. Shit happens. People make mistakes, especially when they're wasted."

"I guess so. But still…"

Joe whistles and then says the obvious—that Naya would flip if she ever found out.

My other line rings. "You need to get that?" Joe asks.

"No. I'll let it roll to voice mail."

"You sure? It could be your new boyfriend."

"Ask yourself if you're being helpful," I say, although I'm relieved that he is not preachy and serious. That's not Joe's style, but you never know when someone is going to take the moral high ground. And there is definitely moral high ground all around here, particularly considering that Naya is a friend of his too. Not as close as he and I are, but they still talk occasionally.

"Sorry. Sorry." He snickers. "Okay. Just one more substantive question."

"What?"

"Was it good?"

"Joe! I don't know. We were drunk!"

"So it was all sloppy?"

"C'mon, Joe!" I say, as if I'm not thinking about the particulars. Meanwhile, a snapshot of the Incident flashes through my brain—my fingers pressed into Tremaines's back. It is a perfect, airbrushed image. There is nothing sloppy about it.

"So you've spoken to him since?"

I tell him about the Hamptons weekend and the date with Sean.

"Nice touch. Going for his friend. That way, if you marry Sean, you guys can be swingers."

I ignore him and continue with the rest—the ride to the jitney, last night, a summary of the e-mail.

"Wow. Shit. So… do you have feelings for him too?"

"I don't know," I say, even though I know that the answer is yes.

"But the wedding's still on?"

"Yeah," I say. "As far as I know."

"As far as you know?"

"Yes. It is."

Silence. He is not laughing anymore, so my guilt returns in full force.

"What are you thinking now?"

"I was just wondering where you want this to go," he says. "What do you want from it? Is it a fling, or do you want him to call off the wedding?"

I flinch at the word "fling." That's not what it is at all, but at the same time, I don't think I want Trey to call off the wedding. I can't imagine doing that to Naya. I tell Joe that I don't know, I'm not sure.

"Hmm… Well, has he mentioned the engagement at all?"

"No. Not really."

"Hmm."

"What? What does 'hmm' mean?"

"It means I think he should call the shit off."

"Because of me?" My stomach drops at the thought of being responsible for Naya's canceled wedding. "Maybe he just has cold feet?"

I hear my voice rising hopefully at the suggestion of mere cold feet. Why does part of me want it to be that simple? And how can I be so thrilled to be near Trey, so deeply moved by his e-mail, and still want, on some level, for him to marry Naya?

"Dem—"

"Joe, I know what you're going to say."

I don't know exactly what he is going to say, but I have a hunch from his tone that it has something to do with where things are going to end up if I don't cease and desist. That it's going to blow up somehow. That someone—likely me—is going to get hurt. But I don't want to hear him say any of it.

"Okay. Just be careful. Don't get busted. Shit."

I hear him laughing again.

"What?"

"Just thinking of Naya… It's sort of satisfying."

"Satisfying how?"

"Oh, come on. Don't even tell me that part of you doesn't like zinging her a little bit. There's some poetic justice here. Naya's been riding roughshod over you for years."

"What are you talking about?" I ask, genuinely surprised to hear him describe our friendship like that. I know I've been feeling more irritated by her recently and I know that she has not always been the most selfless of friends, but I've never thought of her as riding roughshod over me. "No she hasn't."

"Yeah, she has."

"No. She hasn't" I say more firmly. I'm not sure who I am defending—me or Naya. Yes, there was the matter of you, Joe. But you don't know about that.

"Oh, please. Remember Notre Dame? The SATs?"

I think back to the day we all received our SAT scores, sealed in white envelopes from Guidance. We were all tight-lipped, but dying to know what everyone else got. Finally Naya just said at lunch, "Okay, who cares. Let's just tell our scores. Demi?"

"Why do I have to go first?" I asked. I was satisfied with my score, but still didn't want to go first.

"Don't be a baby," Naya said. "Just tell us."

"Fine. Thirteen hundred," I said.

"What was your verbal?" she asked.

I told her 680.

"Nice," she said. "Congratulations."

Joe went next. Fourteen ten. No surprise there. I forget what Marissa got—something in the low eleven hundreds.

"Well?" I looked at Naya.

"Oh. Right. I got a thirteen hundred five."

I knew instantly that she didn't have a 1305. The SAT is not scored in increments of five. Joe knew too, because he kicked me under the table and hid a smile with his ham sandwich.

I didn't care that she lied per se. She was a known embellisher. But the fact that she lied about her score to beat me by five—that part really figured. We didn't call her on it. There was no point.

But then she said, "Well, maybe we'll both get into Notre Dame."

It was her Joe power move in the fifth grade all over again.

Like a lot of kids in the Midwest, my dream growing up was to attend Notre Dame. We're not Irish or even Catholic, but ever since my parents took me to a Notre Dame football game when I was eight, I wanted to go there. To me it was what a college should be—stately stone buildings, manicured lawns, plenty of tradition. I wanted to be a part of it. Naya never showed the slightest interest in Notre Dame and it irritated me that she was infringing on my terrain. But I wasn't too worried about her taking my spot. My grades were higher, my SATs were probably higher, and besides, more than one student from our high school got into Notre Dame every year.

That spring, the acceptance and rejection letters trickled in slowly. I checked the mailbox every day, in agony. Mike O'Sullivan, who had three generations of alumni in his family and was the president of our class, got into Notre Dame first. I assumed that I would be next, but Naya got her letter before I did. I was with her when she got the mail, although she wouldn't open the envelope in front of me. I went home, hoping guiltily that she had received bad news.

She called an hour later, ecstatic. "I can't believe it! I got in! Can you believe it?"

In short, no. I couldn't. I mustered up a congratulations, but I was crushed. Her news meant one of two things: she had taken my spot, or we would both go to Notre Dame and she would upstage me for four more years. As much as I knew I would miss Naya when I went away, I felt strongly that I needed to establish myself apart from her. Once she got in, there would be no perfect resolution.

Still, I wanted that acceptance more than I had ever wanted anything. And I had my pride on the line. I waited, prayed, even thought about calling the admissions office to beg. One sickening week later, my letter arrived. It looked just like Naya's. I ran inside, my heart pounding in my ears as I sliced open the envelope, unfolded the paper that held my fate. Close… you are very highly qualified… but no cigar.

I was devastated and could barely speak to my friends in school the next day, especially Naya. At lunch, as I fought back tears, she informed me that she was going to Indiana anyway. That she wanted nothing to do with a school that would turn me down. Her charity upset me all the more. For once, Marissa spoke up. "You took Demi's spot, and you didn't even want to go there?"

"Well, it was my first choice. I changed my mind. And how was I supposed to know it would happen like this?" she said. "I assumed she would get in; I only beat her by a few points on the SAT."

Joe had had enough. "You didn't get a damn thirteen hundred five, Naya. The SAT is scored in increments of ten."

"Who said I got a thirteen hundred five?"

"You did," Joe and I said in unison.

"No I didn't. I said a thirteen ten."

"Oh my God!" I said, looking at Marissa for support, but her gumption had run out. She claimed that she had forgotten what Naya said.

We argued for the rest of the lunch hour about what Naya had said and why she had applied to Notre Dame if she didn't want to go there. We both ended up crying, and Naya left school early, telling the school nurse she had cramps. The whole thing blew over when I got into Duke and talked myself into being happy with that result. Duke had a similar look and feel—stone buildings, pristine campus, and prestige. It was just as good as Notre Dame and maybe it was better to broaden my horizons and leave home.

But to this day I wonder why Notre Dame picked Naya over me. Maybe a junior male member of the admissions staff fancied her photo. Maybe it was just Naya's typical good luck.

In any case, I'm glad that Joe refreshed my memory about Notre Dame. Yes, Naya could be a good friend—she usually was—but she also screwed me at a few pivotal moments in life: first love, college dream. Those were no small matters.

"All right," I say to Joe. "But I think you're overstating the point a little. I wouldn't use the term 'roughshod.'"

"Okay, but you know what I mean. There's an undercurrent of competition."

"I guess so. Maybe," I say, thinking that it isn't much of a competition when one person consistently loses.

"So, anyway, please keep me posted. This is good stuff."

I tell him I will.

"Oh, one more thing," he says. "When are you going to visit me?"

"Soon."

"That's what you always say."

"I know. But you know how it goes. Work is always crazy… I'll come soon, though. This year for sure."

"Good enough," Joe says. "I really do miss you."

"I miss you too."

"Besides," he says. "You might need a vacation by the time you're through with all of this."

After we hang up, I note with satisfaction that Joe never told me to stop. He only said to be careful. And I will do that. I will be careful the next time I see Tremaine.


	8. Chapter 8

I avoid Naya for three days, a very difficult thing to do. We never go so long without talking. When she finally reaches me, I blame my absence on work, say I have been unbelievably swamped—which is true—although I have found plenty of time to daydream about Trey, call Trey, e-mail Trey. She asks if I am free for Sunday brunch. I tell her yes, figuring that I might as well just get the face-to-face meeting over with. We arrange to meet at EJ's Luncheonette near my apartment.

On Sunday morning, I arrive at EJ's first and note with relief that the place is full of children. Their happy clamor provides a distraction and makes me slightly less nervous. But I am still filled with anxiety at the thought of spending time with Naya. I have been able to cope with my guilt by avoiding all thoughts of her, almost pretending that Trey is single and we are back in law school, before I ever got the big idea to introduce Naya to him. But that tactic will not be possible this afternoon. And I'm afraid that spending time with her will force me to end things with Trey, something I desperately don't want to do.

A moment later, Naya barges in carrying her big black Kate Spade bag, the one she uses for heavy errand-running, specifically the wedding variety. Sure enough, I see her familiar orange folder poking out of the top of the bag, stuffed with tear-outs from bridal magazines. My stomach drops. I had just about prepared myself for Naya but not for the wedding.

She gives me the two-cheek kiss hello as I smile, try to act natural. She launches into a tale about Kate's blind date from the night before with a surgeon named Skip. She says it did not go well, that Skip wasn't tall enough for Kate and failed to ask if she wanted dessert, thus setting off her cheapskate radar. I am thinking that perhaps the only radar that had gone off was Skip's "tiresome snob" radar. Maybe he just wanted to go home and get away from her. I don't offer this suggestion, however, as Naya doesn't like it when I criticize Kate unless she does so first.

"She is just way too picky," Naya says as we are led to our booth. "It's like she looks for things not to like, you know?"

"It's okay to be picky," I say. "But she has a pretty screwed-up set of criteria."

"How do you figure?"

"She can be a little shallow."

Naya gives me a blank stare.

"I'm just saying she cares too much about money, appearances, and how connected the guy is. She's just narrowing her pool a bit—and her chances of finding someone."

"I don't think she's that picky," Naya says. "She'd have gone out with Sean and he's not well connected. He's from some dumpy town in Maryland and his hair cut is terrible."

"Michigan," I say, marveling at how superficial Naya sounds. I guess she's been like this since her arrival to Manhattan, maybe even our whole lives, but sometimes when you know someone well, you don't see them as they really are. So I honestly think I've managed to ignore this fundamental part of her personality, perhaps not wanting to see my closest friend in this light. But ever since my conversation with Joe, her pushy, shallow tendencies seem magnified, impossible to overlook.

"Maryland, Michigan. Whatever," she says, waving her hand in the air as if she herself doesn't hail from the Midwest. It bothers me the way Naya downplays our roots, even occasionally bagging on our hometown, calling it backward and ugly.

"And I like his hair," I say.

She smirks. "I see you're defending him. Interesting."

I ignore her.

"Have you heard from him lately?"

"A few times. Texts mostly."

"Any calls?"

"A few."

"Have you seen him?"

"Not yet."

"Damn, Demi. Don't lose momentum." She removes her gum and wraps it in a napkin. "I mean, don't blow this one. You're not going to do better."

I study my menu and feel anger and indignation swell inside of me. What a fucked up thing to say. Not that I think there is anything wrong with Sean, but why can't I do better? What is that supposed to mean, anyway? For our entire friendship, it has been silently understood that Naya is the pretty one, the lucky one, the charmed one. But an implicit understanding is one thing. To say it just like that—you can't do better—is quite another. Her nerve is truly breathtaking. I formulate possible retorts, but then swallow them. She doesn't know how bitchy her remark is; it only springs from her innate thoughtlessness. And besides, I really have no right to be mad at her, considering.

I look up from my menu and glance at Naya, worried that she will be able to see everything on my face. But she is oblivious. My mom always says that I wear my emotions on my sleeve, but unless Naya wants to borrow the outfit, she doesn't see a thing.

Our waiter comes by and takes our orders without a notepad, something that always impresses me. Naya asks for dry toast and a cappuccino, and I order a Greek omelet, substituting cheddar cheese for feta, and fries. Let her be the healthy one today.

Naya whips out her orange folder and starts to tick through various lists. "Okay. We have so much more to do than I thought. My mom called last night and was all 'Have you done this? Have you done that?' and I started freaking out."

I tell her that we have plenty of time. I am wishing we had more.

"It's, like, three months away, Demi. It's going to be here before we know it."

My stomach drops as I wonder how many more times I will see Trey in the three months. At what point will we stop? It should be sooner rather than later. It should be now.

I watch Naya as she continues to go through her folder, making little notes in the margins until the waiter brings our food. I check the inside of my omelet—cheddar cheese. He got it right. I begin to eat as Naya yaps about her tiara.

I nod, only half listening, still feeling stung by her rude words.

"Are you listening to me?" she finally asks. Yes.

"Well then, what did I just say?"

"You said you had no idea where to find a tiara."

She takes a bite of toast, still looking doubtful. "Okay. So you did hear me."

"Told ya," I say, shaking salt onto my fries.

"Do you know where to get one?"

"Well, we saw some at Vera Wang, in that glass case on the first floor, didn't we? And I'm pretty sure Bergdorf has them."

I think back to the early days of Naya's engagement, when my heart had been at least somewhat in it. Although I was envious that her life was coming together so neatly, I was genuinely happy for her and was a diligent maid of honor. I recall our long search for her gown. We must have seen every dress in New York. We made the trek to Kleinfeld in Brooklyn. We did the department stores and the little boutiques in the Village. We hit the big designers on Madison Avenue—Vera Wang, Carolina Herrera, Yumi Katsura, Amsale.

But Naya never got that feeling that you're supposed to get, that feeling where you are overcome with emotion and start weeping all over the dressing room. I finally targeted the problem. It was the same problem that Naya has trying on bathing suits. She looked stunning in everything. The body-hugging sheaths showed off her slender hips and height. The big princess ball gowns emphasized her minuscule waist. The more dresses she tried on, the more confused we became. So finally, at the end of one long, weary Saturday, when we arrived at our last appointment, at Wearkstatt in Soho, I decided that this would be our final stop. The fresh-faced girl, who was not yet jaded by life and love, asked Naya what she envisioned for her special day. Naya shrugged helplessly and looked at me to answer.

"She's having a city wedding," I started.

"I just love Manhattan weddings."

"Right. And it's in early September. So we're counting on warm weather… And I think Naya prefers simple gowns without too many frills."

"But not too boring," Naya chimed in.

"Right. Nothing too plain-Jane," I said. God forbid.

The girl pressed a finger to her temple, scurried off, and returned with four virtually indistinguishable A-lines. And that's when I made a decision that I was going to pick one of the dresses to be the one. When Naya tried on the second dress, a silk satin A-line in soft white with a dropped waist and beading on the bodice, I gasped. "Shit, Naya. It's gorgeous on you," I said. (It was, of course.) "This is it!"

"Do you think?" Her voice quivered. "Are you sure?"

"I'm positive," I said. "You need to buy this one."

Moments later, we were placing an order for the dress, talking about fittings. Naya and I had been friends forever, but I think it was the first time that I realized the influence I have over her. I picked her wedding dress, the most important garment that she will ever wear.

"So you won't mind running some errands with me today?" she asks me now. "The only thing I really want to accomplish is shoes. I need my shoes for the next fitting. I figure we'll look at Stuart Weitzman and then zip up to Barney's. You can come with me, can't you?"

I plow a forkful of my omelet through ketchup. "Sure… But I do have to go in to work today," I lie.

"You always have to work! I don't know who has it worse—you or Trey," she says. "He's been working on this big project lately. He's never home."

I keep my eyes down, searching my plate for the best remaining fry. "Really?" I say, thinking of the recent nights Trey and I have stayed at work late, talking on the phone. "That sucks."

"Tell me about it. He's never available to help with this wedding. It's really starting to piss me off."

After lunch and a lot more wedding conversation, we walk over to Madison, turning left toward Stuart Weitzman. As we enter the store, Naya admires a dozen sandals, telling me that the cut of the shoes is perfect for her narrow, small-heeled feet. We finally make our way to the satin wedding shoes in the back. She scrutinizes each one, choosing four pairs to try on. I watch as she prances around the store, runway style, before settling on the pair with the highest heels. I almost ask her if she is sure they are comfortable, but stop myself. The sooner she makes a decision, the sooner I will be dismissed for the day.

But Naya isn't finished with me. "While we're over here, can we go to Elizabeth Arden to look at lipsticks?" she asks as she pays for her shoes.

I reluctantly agree. We walk over to Fifth, while I tolerate her yammering about waterproof mascara and how I have to remind her to buy some for the wedding day because there was no way that she was going to make it through the ceremony without crying.

"Sure," I say. "I'll remind you."

I tell myself to view these tasks with an objective eye, as detached as a wedding coordinator who barely knows the bride, rather than the bride's oldest but most disloyal friend. After all, if I am especially helpful to Naya, it might diminish my guilt. I imagine Naya discovering my misdeeds and me saying, "Yes, all of that is true. You got me. But may I remind you that I NEVER ONCE ABANDONED MY MAID OF HONOR DUTIES!"

"May I help you, ladies?" the woman behind the counter at Elizabeth Arden asks us.

"Yes. We are looking for a pink lipstick. A vivid yet soft and innocent bridal pink," Naya says.

"And you are the bride?"

"I am. Yes." Naya flashes one of her fake PR smiles.

The woman beams back and makes her decisive recommendations, swiftly pulling out five tubes and setting them on the counter in front of us. "Here you are. Perfect."

Naya tells her that I will need a complementary shade, that I am the maid of honor.

"How nice. Sisters?" The woman smiles. Her big square teeth remind me of Chiclets.

"No," I say.

"But she's like my sister," Naya says, simply and sincerely.

I feel shitty. This has to stop. Right now. Right at this second. I haven't yet slept with Trey consciously, soberly. So we kissed again? It was only a kiss. The turning point will be the selection of the bridal lipstick. Right now. One, two, three, go!

Then I think of Trey's smooth skin, soft lips and his words—I like literally everything about you. I still can't believe that Trey has those feelings for me. And the fact that I feel the same way about him is too much to ignore. Maybe it is meant to be. Words like "fate" and "soul mates" swirl around in my head, words that made me scoff in my twenties. I note the irony—aren't you supposed to get more cynical with age?

"You like this one?" Naya turns to me with her full lips in a pout.

"It's nice," I say.

"Is it too bright?"

"I don't think so. No. It's pretty."

"I think it may be too bright. Remember, I'm going to be in white. It'll make a difference. Remember Kim Frisby's wedding makeup, how she looked like a total tart? I want to look hot, but sweet too. You know, like a virgin. But still hot."

I am suddenly and unexpectedly on the verge of tears—I just can't stand the wedding talk another second. "Nay, I really have to get to work. I'm truly sorry."

Her lower lip protrudes. "C'mon, just a little longer. I can't do this without you!" And then she says to our salesgirl, "No offense to you."

The girl smiles as if she totally understands, no offense taken. She recognizes the truth of what Naya is saying and is probably wondering what kind of a maid of honor leaves the bride during such a pivotal moment.

I take a deep breath and tell her that I can stay a few more minutes. She samples more tubes, wiping her lips with a makeup-removing lotion between hues of pink.

"How about this one?"

"Nice." I smile earnestly.

"Well, nice doesn't cut it!" she snaps. "It has to be perfect. I have to look perfect!"

As I study her pouty, berry-stained, bee-stung lips, any trace of remorse is gone. All I feel is solid, full-blown resentment.

Why does everything have to be perfect for you? Why does it all have to be handed to you in a perfect package all wrapped up with a Martha Stewart bow? What did you do to deserve Trey? I met him first. I introduced him to you. I should have gone for him. Why didn't I, again? Oh, right, because I thought I wasn't good enough for him. Well, I was mistaken. I obviously misjudged the situation. It can happen… especially when one has a friend like you, a friend who assumes that she has a right to the best of everything, a friend who is so relentless in her quest to outshine you that you even begin to underestimate yourself, set your sights low. This is your fault, Naya, for taking what should have been mine in the first place.

I am keyed up and absolutely desperate to get away from her. I look at my watch and sigh, almost believing that I really do have to go to work and that Naya is being inconsiderate, as usual, taking advantage of my time. I think my job is a little more important than your lipstick for an event that is still months away1.

"I'm sorry. Nay—it's not my fault that I have to work."

"Fine."

"It's not my fault," I say again.

Not my fault.

My feelings for Trey are not my fault.

And his feelings for me—and I know they are real—are not his fault.

Before I can escape, Naya calls Kate on her cell. I can hear Kate inquire, and then state with the authority of Bride's magazine that they have a beautiful bridal line and their lipstick has plenty of moisture but not too much shine.

"Will you come meet me now?" Naya pleads into the phone. Her sense of entitlement knows no bounds.

She hangs up the phone and tells me that I am free to go, that Kate will be straight over. She waves at me; I am being dismissed.

"Good-bye," I say. "I'll speak to you later?"

"Sure. Whatever. Bye."

As I turn to leave, she issues a final warning. "If you're not careful, I'm going to have to demote you to lowly bridesmaid and give Kate your honored position."

So much for just like sisters.

I call Tremaines's cell phone the second I am out of sight. It is a low move, making the call while Naya does wedding errands, but I am running off the steam of indignation. That's what she gets for being so demanding, domineering, and self-centered.

"Where are you?" I ask Trey after we exchange hellos.

"Home."

"Oh."

"Where are you? I thought you were shopping.'

"I was. But I said I had to work."

I notice that we are both dancing around any direct mention of Naya.

"Well, do you have to work?" he asks tentatively.

"Not really."

"Good. Me either. Can I see you?"

"I'll be home in twenty minutes."

Trey beats me to my apartment and is waiting in my lobby making small talk with Jose about the Mets. I am so happy to see him, relieved to be away from Naya. I smile and say hello, wondering if Jose recognizes Trey from past visits with Naya. I hope he doesn't. It's not just my parents from whom I want approval. I even want it from my doorman.

Trey and I ride the elevator and walk down the hall to my apartment. I am jittery with anticipation, eager for his touch. We sit on my couch. He takes my hands and we start kissing with an urgency that feels like an affair. It is a serious word—a scary word. It conjures images of Sunday school and the Ten Commandments. But it is not adultery. Nobody is married. Yet. I push it all out of my mind as I kiss Trey. There will be no more guilt, not for this next parcel of time.

Suddenly, perching on the couch seems ridiculous. My bed would be so much more comfortable. Nothing more has to happen just because we're on a bed. That is a teenager's perception. I am a grown woman with life experience (albeit limited), and I can control myself on my own bed. I stand up and lead him over to the other side of my studio. He follows me, still holding my hand. We sit on the foot of the bed. Trey slips his feet out of his sneakers.

"Come here," he says, pulling me against him and both of us up toward my pillows. He is strong, his skin warm. We are now on our sides, our bodies against each other. He kisses me more, and we topple over in his direction. He stops kissing me suddenly, clears his throat, and says, "It's so strange. Being with you like this. And yet it also feels so natural. Maybe because we've been friends for so long."

I tell him I know exactly what he means. I think back to law school. We weren't best friends in those days, but we were close enough to learn a lot about each other, stuff that comes out even when your focus is on contributory negligence and ways to rescind a contract. I mentally catalog all that I learned about Trey in the pre-Naya days. That he grew up in Westchester. That he is Catholic. That he played basketball in high school and considered walking on at Georgetown. That he has a brother named Forrest who went to Cornell and now teaches high school English in Buffalo. That his parents divorced when he was very young. That his father remarried. That his mother beat breast cancer.

And then there was all that I learned via Naya, details of his personal life that I've found myself conjuring and pondering in recent days. Like that Trey is grouchy in the morning. That he does at least fifty push-ups before bed every night and that he never leaves dirty dishes on the counter. That he broke down when his grandfather died, the only time she has ever seen him cry. That he had two serious girlfriends before Naya and that the one named Lauren, who worked as a research analyst at Goldman Sachs, dumped him and broke his heart.

When I add it all up, I know a lot. But I want more. "Tell me everything about yourself," I say, sounding eighteen.

Trey touches my face and then draws an imaginary line along my nose and around my mouth, resting his finger on my chin. "You first. You're the mysterious one."

I laugh. "Hardly," I say, thinking that he is confusing being shy with being mysterious.

"You are. You were a closed book in law school. All quiet, not wanting to date anyone—despite plenty of guys trying… I could never get much out of you."

I laugh again. "What's that supposed to mean? I told you plenty in law school."

"Like what?"

I rattle off some autobiographical details.

"I'm not talking about stuff like that," he says. "I'm talking about the important things. How you feel about things."

"I hated Zigman," I offer weakly.

"I know. Your fear was all-consuming. And then you did a great job when he finally called on you."

"I did not," I say, remembering how I stumbled my way through a long, painful line of questioning.

"Yes you did. You just didn't think you did. You don't see yourself the way you are."

I avert my eyes, focus on a spot of ink on my comforter.

He continues. "You see yourself as very average, ordinary. And there is nothing ordinary about you, Demi."

I can't look back at him. My face burns.

"And I know that you blush when you're embarrassed." He smiles.

"No I don't!" I cover my face with one hand and roll my eyes.

"Yes you do. You're adorable. And yet you have no idea, which is the most adorable part."

Nobody, not even my mother, has ever called me adorable.

"And you are beautiful. Absolutely, stunningly beautiful in the freshest, most natural way. You look like one of those Ivory girls. Remember those commercials?… You're probably too young. You're like a model. All natural."

I tell him to please stop. Even though I love what he has just told me.

"It's true."

I want to believe him.

He kisses my neck, his left hand resting on my hip.

"Trey."

"Hmmm?"

"Who ever said I didn't want to date in law school?"

"Well, you didn't, did you? You were there to learn, not date. That was clear."

"I went out with Wilmer."

"Not until the very end."

"He didn't ask me out until the very end."

"Brave guy."

I roll my eyes.

"I almost asked you out, you know that?"

I laugh at this.

"It's true," he says, sounding a little bit hurt.

I give him a dubious look.

"Do you remember that time when we were studying for our Torts final?"

I picture his thumb on my face, wiping away my tear. So it had meant something.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about, don't you?"

My face feels hot as I nod. "I think so. Yeah."

"And when I asked to walk you home, you said no. Shot me down."

"I didn't shoot you down!"

"You were all business."

"I wasn't. I just didn't think at the time…" My voice trails off.

"Yeah, and then you introduced me to Naya. I knew then that you had zero interest."

"I just didn't think… I didn't know you saw me that way."

"I loved spending time with you," Trey says. "Still do." He stares at me, unblinking.

I tell him that he blinks less than anyone I have ever met. He smiles, says he has never lost a staring contest. I challenge him, making my eyes as wide as his. I notice that he has a dark speck in his left iris, like an eye freckle.

Seconds later, I blink. He flashes a quick, jubilant smile and then kisses me more. He changes the intensity and pressure and amount of tongue, the kissing ideals that are all too often abandoned once in a long-term relationship. Kissing Trey would never become stale. He would never stop kissing me like this.

"Tell me about Lauren," I say when we finally separate. "And your high school girlfriend."

"Jessica?" He laughs, sweeps a piece of my hair behind my ear. "What about her? Ancient history."

Everyone knows that you don't discuss exes when you're in a fledgling relationship. Even though you are dying to know those details from the very beginning, that is something you bring up much later in the game. You don't have to be a Rules Girl like Kate to have that concept down. Dating someone new is a fresh start for both of you. No good can come from rehashing past—and by definition failed—relationships. But compared to the fact that he is engaged, ex-girlfriends are an innocuous topic. There is no need to strategize here in my safe studio. The rules don't apply. It might be the only advantage to our situation.

"Were you in love with them?" For some reason I need to know.

He rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling, concentrating. I like that he thinks about my questions, just as he did during law-school exams. I remember him staring into space for the first forty-five minutes of an exam. Not writing a word on his blue book until he thought through his entire answer.

He clears his throat. "Not with Jessica. But yes with Lauren."

No wonder Lauren has always bothered Naya so much. She wants to be the only one he has ever loved. I remember how she used to beat down Ryan in high school: "You didn't love Kelly, did you? Did you?" Until he finally just said no. Only you, Naya.

"Why not with Jessica?" I ask. I'd rather hear about the one he didn't love first.

"I don't know. She was a sweet girl. As sweet as they come. I don't know why I didn't love her. It's something you can't really control."

Trey is right. It has nothing to do with the other person's inherent worth, the sum of their fine attributes. It is something you can't will yourself to feel. Or not feel. Although I have done a pretty good job of it over the years. Just look at Wilmer. I dated him for two years and never felt even a fraction of what I'm feeling now.

"Of course, it was just high school," he continues. "How serious can you really be at that age?"

I nod. Then I ask Trey about Lauren. "So you loved her?"

"Yeah. But that wasn't going to work in the long run. She's Jewish and was very up-front about her expectations of me. She wanted me to convert, raise our kids Jewish, the whole nine yards. And maybe I would have been okay with that… I'm not very religious… but I wasn't okay with the fact that she made it a bright-line rule. I saw a life of her browbeating me into shit. Just like her mother does to her father. Besides, we were too young to commit… It still killed me when she walked, though."

"Is she married now?"

"Funny you ask that. I actually just heard from a mutual friend that she got engaged. About a month after—" He stops, looks uncomfortable.

"After you did?"

"Yeah," he whispers. He pulls me against him and kisses me hard, erasing any thoughts of Naya. We undress and slide under the covers.

"You're cold," he says.

"I'm always cold when I'm nervous."

"Why are you nervous? Don't be nervous."

"Trey," I say into his neck.

"Yeah, Dem?"

"Nothing."

His body covers mine. I am not cold anymore.

We kiss for a long time, touching everywhere.

I don't know the time, but it is just getting dark.

I almost stop him, for all of the obvious reasons. But also because I'm thinking we should wait until we can spend a night together. Then again, that might never happen. And likely I will never shower with him, watch him shave in the morning. Or read the Sunday Times over coffee, whiling away the hours. We'll never hold hands in Central Park or cuddle on a blanket in Sheep's Meadow. But I can have him now. Nothing is stopping us from this moment.

I can see just a fraction of Tremaine as we move together—his sideburn with a trace of gray, his strong shoulder. My fingertips graze his collarbone, then hold on more tightly because I know this won't last.


End file.
